


Both Matter

by imperfectkreis



Series: A Handbook of Images [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon Het Relationship, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Oral Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 64,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Sabina Trevelyan is comfortable with sex, less comfortable with affection. Commander Cullen Rutherford is basically the opposite. Two dorks dance around their issues. All the while they're supposed to act like adults and prevent Thedas from becoming a shitstorm. Everyone is terrible to everyone else and probably need to double check their damn priorities.</p>
<p>Now with art by the lovely  LadyJeanClaude! (Chapter 5)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always Armed

When she dreams, buried in the folds of the Fade, she is a mage. When she wakes, cold and alone in the Inquisitor's (she still has trouble connecting herself to the Inquisitor, it will take time) bed, the magic abandons her.

Sabina pulls on her robe over her thin nightshirt. Growing up in the Marches has made her tolerance for the cold admirable. Her feet pad against the stone floor as she makes her way to the balcony, swinging open the doors and stepping into the night.

That has always been her childhood dream as well, that she could weave magic, little bursts of electricity from her fingertips. When she was quite young, maybe six or so, she had run to her mother exclaiming she was a mage indeed and miming the gestures she had made in the Fade, but no magic came flowing out. Her dark hair tied up in curly ringlets, she screamed and cried that she had magic, she was sure of it. While her mother sighed with relief she cried herself out until she was an exhausted heap on the floor. With magic being such a curse, she never could figure out why she was so upset.

Now with magic grafted on her, if not in her, Sabina thinks the whole thing bitterly awful.

But alone, in the cold air of Skyhold, she mimes the motion of electricity again. Nothing comes. She sighs and returns to bed, chasing impossible, unwanted dreams.

\--

There are other impossible dreams that Sabina Trevelyan chases in her waking hours. Ones that involve the Inquisition’s Commander. 

Cautious, measured, professional in his speech. Always relying on decorum and order. Before she took the title of Inquisitor, he always insisted on affixing “Lady” to her name, though she hates the sound of it. From his lips it sounds all the more unpalatable. 

She knows why she hates it so. Years spent sneaking about, pretending to be anyone who wasn’t a nobleman’s daughter. Lying about her parents, her name, her age, in taverns she never should have been in. Rolling around in rented or stolen beds with men and women who wouldn’t recognize her in another context, even if they were employed in the service of her very own household. Cullen speaks with the same commoner’s voice, an accent without interruption from locution tutoring. That simple thrill of the discouraged, if not the forbidden rising up inside her. He speaks like those whom she had often taken advantage, stolen hours, evenings, in the service of pretty lies. But that is not the way she could snare him. Unlike Ostwick, she cannot not live between shadows here, the shadow of her father’s position and the cloud she precipitated herself as cover. 

She wants, and where before she had wanted, she could always likewise have. But having Cullen isn’t an option. 

And that is because of the other Cullen. The one who speaks in jumbled heaps of phrases between little, strangled sounds that he cannot keep back. Whose face flushes under three or four days of stubble growth and averts his eyes when she chooses to remove bits of blood-caked armor at the War Table. That Cullen is neither the Commander of the Inquisition’s Forces (a title that cannot help her in her guilt) nor an idle distraction. The desire he feels radiates off of him in those moments, but it is not one she is accustomed to handling. Not one to be deflected with clever turns of phrase and sex.

He is too obvious, too syrupy sweet and she sometimes feels like she might grow soft from drinking it in.

Even if she knows better, that he should be off limits, she wants. She is used to having. Can’t stay away. 

At Skyhold he spends less time personally overseeing the new recruits, delegating much of training to trusted veterans. Instead of finding him with his men, he spends long hours confined to his office, organizing routes and schedules, hunching over his desk. He doesn’t seem the man for it. Then again, he had been a man of some importance in Kirkwall as well. His name had been passed around at parties in the Marches after the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry.

“Anything I should know, Commander?”

He straightens his posture at the sound of Sabina’s voice, like a good child thinking he was caught out. But his desk is filled with requisition requests, itineraries, all things directly in service to his work.

“Not at present, Inquisitor.” He clasps his hands behind his back and stands at attention. Only the shift of his feet gave away he is nervous at all. Maybe a twitch of a hand against the edge of his desk. Yes, holding on as if he is afraid of falling.

“I was thinking about sparring? Care to join me?” Wicked thing really, to tempt herself in such a way, in a way she knows he could be tempted too. Just enough adherence to decorum to get him going. Not such a strange request. 

“Should you take off your clothes? Change, I mean.” 

He turns such a perfect shade of pink, down the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks. Just by the side of each nostril he is always pink, the cold air certainly does that, chapping away his skin. She is already accustomed to cold, if not yet the wind.

“Mm, no. It’s fine,” she waves off his concern. “If you can hit me, it’s already too late.”

“Is that a derision of my skill?”

“Not at all.” Sabina takes the hilt of his sword right out of his hands, laying the flat of the blade against her shoulder and marching out of the room, expecting Cullen to follow. “I may not be as...squishy as a mage, but it’s still not my role to be the one hit.”

“Squishy is not a word I’d use to describe you, Inquisitor.” Cullen almost sounds as if he is enjoying himself as they make their way down from the battlements. 

“With those cooks Josie found for us, I will be before long!” She laughs because she knows he will laugh too, if only because it is polite. But not only because it is polite. 

“I’d like to see that...I mean.”

Sabina quickens her pace so Cullen falls behind, left to stew in his own embarrassment. She does want to check if he has transitioned from pink to red, but there will be time later.

“Here.” Once they reach the training dummies, Sabina tosses Cullen his sword, careful to aim the handle towards his outstretched hand.

“And if I’m not hitting you, what is it I’m supposed to be doing?”

“Trying?” She kicks off her shoes, letting them fly until they hit the nearby tree.

“I don’t see your daggers? What are you doing?”

She shrugs her shoulders and loosens the buttons to her tunic, letting the upper flap fall open. “Dancing. And just because you cannot see my weapon, does not mean I’m unarmed. Swing.” The last word is a command, if a breathy one.

The next several minutes consist of Cullen half-heartedly trying to strike her and Sabina’s bored movements between attempted strikes. She should have known that he would not try very hard, particularly when she wears no armor. 

“I will never become better if you do not challenge me, Commander. You know that as well as anyone.”

“Yes, but I am unaccustomed to training against dual wielders. Our forces rely on archers for stealth attacks.” Even though his exertion is minimal, the light activity and cold air move the blush from his cheeks all the way up to his ears. 

“Right now I’m not wielding anything. Besides, not very much like dancing if I hide in the trees and pick you off at a distance. This is fairer. Now, try. Don’t you want to impress me?” She bites the very tip of her tongue. 

“I apologize if you find me inadequate. Perhaps Cassandra would be a better choice? She is more familiar with your fighting style than I.”

“Maybe I want you to get familiar?” With a twirl around his side, she grabs up his sword and brings it round her back, out of his reach. As he steps towards her, she throws down a pinch of powder from her pocket and vanishes from sight. Only enough to move round to his back, pressing the pommel into the small of his back. “And before you argued that I was not armed. Now I clearly am.”

“I am beginning to wonder if you are ever unarmed.” 

Cullen turns and Sabina lets the sword drop to the ground, banging against his feet. She produces one of her smaller knives from her hip, proving just how dangerous she always has been. 

“Now you don’t have to wonder.” She holds the knife just millimeters from his throat. Too heavy a swallow and his adam’s apple would bob against it. She isn’t sure if she wants that or not. Not a thing he would have wanted, she suspects. 

If anything, he wants a nice girl, maybe one who flushes like he does between the sheets. Perhaps one of the Inquisition’s mages, acting out some fantasy he never before dared to indulge at the Circle because it would have been so very against the rules. 

And, if anything, she should leave him well alone because she knows better and he, clearly, doesn’t. It is plain enough in his eyes, even with her knife at his throat, that he is already in too deep when she has only ever wanted to dip her toes. She withdraws the knife from his neck and instead cuts away the ribbon holding her curls atop her head, letting her hair fall down in dark waves to her shoulders. That one gesture makes his eyes widen more than the knife at his throat ever could. 

“I am very well armed. At all times, Commander Cullen.”

His eyes shift from hers to her Anchored hand and somehow that makes her less certain that anything at all had happened between them. Maybe she is still an illusion of her own making.


	2. Trick of the Light

The palm of his hand scorches the back of her neck, unfocused fire licking through his blood.

Little by little the myth of magic breaks down. Mage/Not-mage itself a lie. Sabina saw this first hand, had it grafted to her off-hand. Quite inconvenient really for a rogue who needs both to fight, dance, win.

Cullen’s hands are somewhat softer than she had expected. Last time he had her like this, in his grip, he wore gauntlets. Symbolic, really, for a Commander who spends most of his time inside the walls of Skyhold.

On the battlements he had held her neck, placed his other hand on the curve of her hip, and kissed. It had been painfully distant from Sabina’s past experiences, to kiss sober, to kiss with clothes on, to kiss and stop and not tumble directly into bed. And that distance forced a defensive maneuver, disappear in a cloud of figurative smoke and leave him guessing.

Cullen apologized then and she laughed in his face. Called him a silly boy and grabbed him by the collar, her hands buried in waves of fur. She wasn’t actually sure which one of them was older? Had never occurred to her to ask. Only he looked older than his lips felt in their initial hesitancy.

They hadn’t spoke of it again. Exchanged no promises. Sabina is a liar and a cheat, that is for certain. But he is certainly discrete and far too shy to push the matter. A momentary indiscretion that she wants to repeat, but wouldn’t. Only she does.

Here she is, her back against the wall in Cullen’s bedchamber. Agents still passing through his office below, going about their duties for the Inquisition. His fingers nearly halfway around her neck. His other hand at her breast, thumb sliding over still-hidden flesh. This time he seems to know better than to kiss her, only to hold and appraise. Holds her with his hands and amber eyes. Given the chance, she’ll still destroy him.

“Please, Maker, tell me if you want this,” his head drops, breaking apart their eyes. Shattering the moment Sabina could have understood of unattached passions and poor decision making.

His hand leaves her breast, sliding down her side, across her abdomen. She’s yet to speak but still his hands move, clouding her judgment. No, that isn’t right. Her judgement still knows it is cruel. She is no longer allowed to be cruel.

“I’m not the woman you think I am.” She should release him, but her hands will not move from his arms, clenching and unclenching just above his elbows.

“You have always given yourself too little credit.”

His fingers linger at the hem of her tunic. His desires are clear enough, always have been. Her mistake really, for not better hiding her own.

There has been some token effort to avoid this very situation. Sabina had gone to Leliana, asked her to find someone to provide comfort. Neither woman batted an eye at discussing the particular request. It had been Leliana, after all, tasked with cleaning up some of the Inquisitor’s messier relations when one or two began to recognize her by description. They’d kept it all out of earshot of Josephine, who is a touch more conservative.

The man the Spymaster sent to the Inquisitor’s bed had been adequate enough. Tall, broad, blond.

But not Cullen. And that had been a terrible mistake in the end. Sabina can no longer claim it is merely physical need, frustration, fetish.

“No, but I give ‘the Maker’ no credit at all. It is others who interpret that as self-deprecation.”

Cullen laughs, though Sabina knows well enough he does not find her atheism funny in the least. No one ever does. Maybe Sera.

“That-that was not a ‘no,’ then?” The vulnerability in his voice does not go unnoticed.

Her hands move from his arms to the center of his chest, pushing him backwards, towards the bed. Small steps are needed to lay out her intentions. Sure enough, he will be scared by that alone. Perhaps the truth will be a better deterrent than lies can ever be.

“When I was sixteen,” she begins, “I laid with the Templar who came to take my little sister away.” The backs of Cullen’s knees hit the mattress and Sabina takes care to press him down before climbing atop him. It is cumbersome and they are still clothed. The sides of his armor bite through the fabric of her breeches.

“It was his first assignment. I think he was afraid, even though my family had arranged for the escort to the Circle. He was easily tempted into an unused bedroom, maybe because I was a noble and he was no one, he didn’t know any better.”

Cullen’s breathing is heavy beneath her, his chest rising and falling, quickening.

“I believe he was thrown out of the Order, when they found us with my skirts pulled up and his head between my legs.There was a lot of yelling. If he couldn’t resist a wisp of an innocent girl, how would he ever resist a thing as deadly powerful as a mage? And my parents called for his execution, for defiling their property,” Sabina sneers. “He tried to reason with them. But who would believe him over me? I cried my eyes out to avoid suspicion.”

“You were young, and scared.”

“I was nothing of the sort.”

“You were still young.”

Sabina continues, wanting to drive Cullen away rather than draw out his sympathy. “After that, I did not bring my conquests home. I learned discretion and a seduction. How to get what I wished and vanish in the morning. No longer did I need to use my nobility to my advantage. Clever words brought pretty faces enough into strange beds.”

Below her, Cullen’s features remain calm, steady. The barest hint of his pink tongue visible between his teeth, literally biting it.

“I’d pick them up in taverns, stables, along the road. Anywhere away from my parents’ eyes and ears. Take them somewhere quiet enough, private, enough. Fuck them. Leave them. It was fun for me. I think it was fun for them too. That’s all it ever was. Fifteen years of fun and disappearing acts.”

His hands grip her wrists, not as a restraint, but as if she would slip through his fingers.

“So, Commander, I’m not the woman you think I am. Not the woman you would have ever dreamt of, that much is for sure.”

“You give me so little credit. Inquisitor.” The use of titles seems particularly obscene with his erection still pressing against her upper thigh. “If you think your past would have any bearing on how I...feel for you now.”

“Believe me, I would bed you in a moment. I have wanted to, quite desperately. Dreamt about riding you at your desk. Of being taken against the War Table. Feeling your cock inside me. Having you here in your quarters, my scent clinging to your sheets and your skin.”

Groans so sweet, even if there is to be nothing more than their mutual frustration.

“I have imagined all of it,” she hisses. “And it will only ever be in my imagination. We cannot jeopardize the Inquisition.”

Cullen shifts his hips, up against her and she nearly abandons reason. To have him prone below her, writhing and gasping for air. Fighting her. Curling against her. Perhaps it would be easier to believe in the Maker. To believe she is being divinely punished by the mark on her hand and the man beneath her.

“Of course, Inquisitor. I will not speak of it again. Ever.” Resignation clearly rendered. “But know this. I cannot help but be devoted to you. That line was crossed some time ago.”

“I know, Cullen.” Dipping her head down she kisses each of his flushed cheeks. The right. The left. Then his lips. Sweet and yielding. Bitter things in their endless process of denial. “I thought my truth would do a better job of breaking you than my lies. It seems I am mistaken.”

“Quite.”


	3. Tactics and Strategy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, fuck it, this wasn’t working from Sabina’s POV, so have some Cullen, I guess. This is a disaster. I am very bad at writing nice porn. I thought writing it from Cullen's POV would make it...nicer? Since he's a big romantic softie and Sabina is kind of an asshole. It still might not be nice.

She has yet to move. She has yet to move and her weight was not as insignificant as he had thought. Her thighs squeeze at his hips and lower rib cage, the warmth of her core against his groin. He can feel it even through layers of clothing and coats. He can feel her heart beat in her chest as her dark eyes bore into his.

Sabina wants him to run, to give her up. And she’s right, that the Inquisition must come first, and so he should. He should give her up. But right now she’s the one atop him in his bedchamber and, what? He is supposed to throw her to the ground? No. But perhaps it is now his place to tell her to leave. That is clear enough, she wants to be told to go. She wants him to be complicit in her staying.

Her lips press against both of his cheeks, then his lips. They’re forceful, demanding. She’s using her lips to prove a point. Speaking was unable to deliver, so it’s obvious she’s attempting an alternate tactic. He’s seen her tactics in action, they’re good. Now he’s felt them, also good.

“I thought my truth would do a better job of breaking you than my lies. It seems I am mistaken.”

“Quite,” he doesn’t know exactly where the voice comes from, though it’s his, for certain. It’s more of a challenge to her than he expected. But it’s all because she has been challenging him, at every turn. 

Because she’s smart, he knows she’s right, that she’s not the woman he would have imagined. Not the woman he would imagine for Inquisitor nor the one in his bed. But right now she’s both and he can barely breathe about it. His nostrils are full of the perfume she wears at Skyhold. She does not wear it in the field. Other than that, he only knows he has never encountered the scent before.

“Tell me to leave, Commander.” Her hair comes loose, falling in waves around their faces as she peers down at him. 

With her eyes nearly black in the dimness of his chamber, he can’t read her. Suddenly he feels as if he’s betraying too much of himself. Sabina is trained in deception while he is trained in rules and clarity. His life was black and white for so very long. Until he left the Order, really.

She is not the Inquisitor any of them expected, but perhaps that is because she is better than they could have dreamed. How do the others put it? Who they needed when they needed her.

“No,” he pushes back with his words while curling his hands on her hips, squeezing the flesh there. Most of her softness has fallen away in the time since the Breach opened. She was muscular from the first moment he saw her, but a layer of indulgence has disappeared. 

Her lips curl just at the corners and she repeats herself. “Tell me to leave, Commander.” From the way her tone drops, he knows it’s his last chance. If he does not now tell her to go, they’ve caught one another. He is meant to be disciplined, in control. But where has that gotten him?

Very briefly, he thinks of mages. Of Neria, shy and frail and quiet, failing her Harrowing. In need of protection where he could offer only pity in the end. Of Bethany, as her sister led her away, ash clinging in her dark hair like snowflakes. He had not really known until she was gone. Their eyes looked at him differently in the twinned moments of his failure. 

He would not fail again. He would not wait again. 

“No.” 

With his hands already at her hips, it is easy enough to flip her onto her back, reversing their positions. Her dark hair spreads like a halo behind her head. It contrasts with the white sheets. And still she smiles. 

“We’re making a mistake,” she teases.

“No, we’re not,” his hands shake and her eyes fix on them.

There are too many buckles and straps to his remaining clothing and she does not help him disrobe. Instead, she opens the flap to her tunic and lets it fall off her shoulders, exposing her breast band. Maker, her skin is beautiful, fresh scars stitch her together like patchwork and old ones fading out. He wants to touch her everywhere and she’s to allow it. He forgets his trousers in the moment. 

“We are, but we should make it a good one,” she counters.

He’s atop her and she’s laughing, deep from inside her rib cage and it’s pure joy. Mistake this is not. It can’t be the way her curly hair feels between his fingers when he grips it down to her scalp. 

Her hands pull at his shoulders, maneuvering him into place above her. When he goes to slot his legs between hers, she resists, instead kicking his knees open until she’s between his. Her arms drop from his shoulders to his waist and she grinds up against him. There are still layers between them but the friction is warm and wanted all the same. Her knee keeps his legs spread around hers. 

“Remember,” she whispers at his temple. “I warned you about me.”

“I do not care. I-”

She silences him with her lips atop his. They’re full, but not soft. They’ve cracked from the mountain air and the days on horseback. Wind has whipped her face raw and her stay-overs in Skyhold are not enough to let her skin heal. He’s seen her apply wax to her lips, but it hasn’t helped.

Otherwise, she yields, her hips falling back against the mattress. Still, he’s drowning in her. She licks into his mouth and presses him for more. It feels as if she has ten hands and not just the two as she works the clasp on his trousers. Dexterity at work.

He realizes he’s to undress her as well, finding the laces to her band and untying them. His fingers are bigger, clumsier. The strip of fabric pulls away and he can finally feel the flesh of her body against his. Her breasts are small. Were she not regularly engaged in combat, she might not have need for the band at all. Her nipples dark, stiffening.

When she finishes with his buckles, he helps her in pulling off his trousers. Still her laughter fills the room. Certainly if a scout or messenger were passing through below, they would hear her, but the noise alone is innocent enough. 

Naked, except for his smallclothes, he appreciates her one last time as she is. Before knowing her. This is what she needs from him. To not speak, to not worship, but it is difficult. He wants to tell her a thousand words on how much he admires her, how much he loves her already. But even if she were to hear it, she would not listen. 

“If you don’t start soon, you’ll be the one on your back with your legs spread for me.” She tilts her head against the pillow, appraising him as he had done to her. 

Maker, if that didn’t make his stomach twitch. Both arousal and trepidation. She would do it too, he is sure of it. 

In the process of removing her breeches he tears them. She says it doesn't matter, they are cheap, disposable things. She hates that pair anyway. When he tosses them to the floor, her knives scatter across the boards. 

"Sabina," he is unsure what to say, where to place his hands. He knows though he is to move quickly. And he is to move with confidence he does not possess. 

"Cullen." Her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him against her. 

He can feel the heat from her body, the slick of her skin. That perfume is in his nostrils again. But he also knows what she smells like fresh from fighting. Neither is more alluring than the other.

She holds his face in her hands and he can almost believe she cares for him as well. That it is only the Inquisition she is trying to protect. Or maybe it is him, Maker, if something were to happen to her. He would be helpless. Again.

Her fingers slide over the bridge of his nose. It's a strange, childish gesture, one he would not have expected. Somehow that breaks the spell. She is a person. A beautiful woman in his bed. Maker, he would have her.

The last of their smalls removed, he brings his hand to her core. She is wet, eager. They've taken so long already to reach this point. When he slides one finger inside her, she arches her back and whispers 'finally.' She says it over and over like a mantra. 

Finally. Finally. Finally.

He works her with his fingers, first one, then two, until she slides a hand between their bodies as well. Her fingers tend to her clit while he slicks inside her. Already he feels himself failing her expectations. He doesn't even know her expectations and he's failed them. 

"Let me," he offers

But she's already bucking against his hand, rubbing herself off, and breathing heavily. Her eyes are open, trained on his. He wants to look away, but he can't. For the most part, her release is quiet. Nothing more than a heavy exhale and she slacks back onto the mattress. Her fingers move from herself to his wrist, pushing his hand away.

"Sabina," he wants to apologize. 

But she doesn't look disappointed, or angry, or anything like he expected. She looks happy and flushed.

"Cullen, come on now, you wanted this."

He realizes her legs are still splayed around him and she's waiting. And he's so painfully hard he's actually thankful she's come once already. He doesn't know if he can last with his cock at the rate they're proceeding. With the way she lazily runs her right hand over her chest, across her stomach.

As he spreads her folds she bites at his shoulder. Vicious little teeth scratching at his skin. She may draw blood yet. Her body accepts him easily. A little whine from her mouth boosts his confidence and he manages a few shallow thrusts. 

Her hands grip at his hair, clawing at his scalp and holding his head in place above her. She will not let him look away. She will not be ashamed or let him be ashamed. This is a mistake because neither of them will be able to forget. This is not a mistake because he will not want to forget. 

"More, please," she asks through gritted teeth. 

Their bodies slide against one another, sweat slicked. She raises her hips to meet his thrusts, to dictate his actions more to her liking. She is not accustomed to being passive, that much is clear. 

He wants her to come again, even if it is to be quietly. He wants to be responsible for her coming undone under his hands, in his bed, with his cock. Most of all he wants to be satisfactory. But she is already more than that. Far more.

It's such an unexpected thing that he doesn't realize she's coming until she clenches around him. It's with her legs, wrapping around him again pulling him deeper, and her body spasming around him. Her eyes do close this time, black eyelashes pressing against the tops of her cheeks. Her breathing sounds like his name. The anchor on her hand glows dimly green as if signaling a warning. But no catastrophe follows.

He stops thinking. He stops worrying. He thrusts into her relaxing body until he hears her laugh again, pleasured, sated. Not mocking. He knows not that because she has mocked him before.

"Oh, Cullen..."

She sounds so happy. Because of him.

He's not as quiet as she managed to be. Although the noise from the bed frame would be more than enough to alert those passing through below to the activities above. He tries to bury the sound in the pillow beside her head, letting his moan settle near her flushed face. He spills into her and his vision goes dark for a moment before he knows he must get off from on top of her. Rolling to the side, he feels wet and exposed as he slides out of her. Somehow, he’s certain she doesn’t feel the same.

She rolls to her side to face him. They keep their eyes open. Closing them would be the greatest transgression. 

"When we're not at war," her voice is as clear as her laughter was, "we will both want something different."

He reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear. He thinks about how curly it is, and how dark, and the way her legs feel wrapped between his.

"My only want is for you."


	4. Avalanches

Cullen is not complacent in the contours of his nightmares. He will never be. They are always too vivid, too real. Sharper and clearer now without the dull thud of lyrium to keep them fuzzy at the edges. They weave their way through him nearly every night. Nearly every night for a decade and he cannot grow used to them. Even when it is the same repeated vision, it seems new, it seems alive. 

It starts with Neria. With her sweet blue eyes and soft blush. Neria who he failed. Neria who is dead. But often it starts with Neria being saved, whisked away from the Circle Tower by some hero who is not him. Perhaps she saves herself. Neria as a pale-eyed hero, with a quiet inner strength that no one could have anticipated. But that vision is a lie because he watched her die. A sword through her slim stomach as she failed her Harrowing. Even when awake, he cannot recall the demon which possessed her. As his withdrawal progresses, he remembers particulars of the event with more clarity. He doesn’t want to. He’s afraid one day he’ll remember that he was the one to slay her.

The middle of his nightmares are filled with demons. They bang at the walls of his mind, whispering to him to give in, to yield. There are two. One looks like his sister. One looks like Neria. They both offer their hands to him, tempting him with comfort, with home. When he refuses, their faces twist and burn. Skin falling away in thick patches like melting snow. They stop assaulting his mind and turn their attentions to his body. One keeps the barest trace of Neria’s face, cackling in his ear that he is useless, weak, unworthy. The demon’s lips against the shell of his ear. The demon with her pale-eyes scratches against his chest until blood wells up beneath its fingertips. Its blood tinged hands wreck him. But he does not die. He’d rather die. But he doesn’t. Not-Neria spits that he is worthless. Not even the demons want him anymore. They have all the others, the good Templars who fought and obeyed. The good Templars who just fucked the pretty mages instead of adoring them. That was his mistake. 

His nightmares end with Meredith. She is twisted, horrific. Laced through with jagged protrusions of the red lyrium that fueled her paranoia. Blood mages in every corner. Every apostate already a blood mage in the tattered remnants of her mind. The scowl on her face when Bethany passes her Harrowing with ease. 

Cullen can only attribute Meredith’s violence to madness. But she knew well enough what directives were not for his eyes, so the insanity defense does not travel far. No one was closer to the Knight-Commander than he. Perhaps her personal Tranquil, stripped of her mind for over a decade. So no, it was his responsibility. 

He’d been good. He’d fought. He’d obeyed. Didn’t question her orders. He’d been a good Templar and drank down his sweet lyrium. Good Templar.

Meredith impales the Champion on her blade. It cuts through her torso, clear through her convulsing body. Her mouth is open, but if she screams, it is lost in the cacophony of Kirkwall burning. But the sound of the bow dropping from her hands against the stone is quite clear. So she must not be screaming at all. Blood flows from her open mouth, down the front of her armor, to the ground to paint her bow red. 

The demon, his demon, speaks to him again. It stands behind him, little hands on his shoulders nails cutting through his armor. 

“It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” It coaxes. “Think of the power you could have.” Neria’s voice is multiplied in his mind, layered on top of itself. It’s only a nightmare, but he still averts his eyes. 

“You haven’t won before, demon. You will not win now.”

“I have one last show for you. Try it, see if you like it. It is new.”

The demon, his demon, paints the scene for him, its thin arms wrapped around his torso and its head pressed against his back, holding him in a mockery of intimacy. It shows him Sabina, because it knows. It knows he loves her, and that he cannot tell her.

She looks younger, with fewer freckles across her nose and while her skin is still dark, it is noticeably untouched by the sun. Her hair is piled on top of her head, with a few curls falling loose. She’s been running, barefoot but in her dress, and her cheeks are flushed. Chasing after her little sister. The demon is showing him the day the Templars came. 

The little sister holds Sabina’s hand. She is fairer, her hair straighter. Perhaps six years old or so. It’s clear enough that Sabina adores her. The way she looks at the little girl is unlike anything he has seen on her face. Love.

Even though the girl is much too big to be carried, Sabina picks her up anyway, twirls her around in her arms until they are both laughing. The sister kisses her nose.

An elven servant enters, tells the Mistresses Trevelyan that the Templars have arrived. 

Sabina kisses the sister’s nose back and tells her to hold still. There is a knife in her hand, one of the tiny ones that she wears now publicly at her waist, secretly in her boot as well, and he suspects sometimes in her breast band. Sabina gives the girl the knife. She does not need to explain she is to keep it, to hide it.

And then Sabina sees him. The little sister fades away and it is just the two of them and an empty bedroom. Not-Neria’s arms are still around him, but it is a demon and this is the nightmare of its design. 

She smooths down the wrinkles in her dress and keeps her eyes averted from his. It’s only a game that she’s playing coy. This was her plan all along, to keep her sister away from the Templars. She fails.

He’s in his Templar armor, the same set he was issued when he turned eighteen and properly joined the Order. It feels heavy on his bones. But he is incredibly light when Sabina smiles. Her hands are pressed against her chest, white gloves contrasting with the dark fabric of her dress. 

“Oh, Ser Cullen, I….you will have to show me what to do.” Her hands move from her chest to his, pressing against his breastplate. 

Only one lamp is lit in the room. The light catches her eyes and they look wet, red. She’s an illusion but he wants to comfort her nonetheless. He wants to kiss at the corners of her eyes and tell her that her sister will be safe. He will keep her safe. But he is the very thing Sabina is trying to protect her sister from. And he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know in the waking world what became of the sister. He has never asked. Sabina has never told. 

Her hands reach up to his shoulders. She presses down with unanticipated strength until Cullen is on his knees before her. His hands skim the hem of her dress and his knuckles rub against the floorboards. 

This is the temptation his demon has fashioned. Sabina, not as she is now, but as she could have been in their youth. As they could have been before the sky was torn open. But that is a lie in itself. That the Templars came to the Trevelyan estate at all is proof that there was no time of innocence. Not for them, not for anyone. 

He rests his hands on her hips as he rises from the floor. Even now, he does not want to let the illusion go. 

“I’ll run away with you, Ser Cullen,” her voice echos. “We’ll run away from here and I’ll be your wife. I’ll give you beautiful children.” But it is not her voice alone. It is Sabina’s and Neria’s and Bethany’s. All echoing together. And it’s his scream at the Circle Tower and Hawke’s scream at the Gallows. 

Sabina’s hand glows green, a sharp, toxic kind of color. She’s started tipping her daggers in poison. Her hand wraps around his throat and she’s pulling the Fade out through his mouth….

He wakes with a start. He has sweat through the sheets and they’ll have to be changed. It’s already light outside. He has overslept. Predictably, Sabina is gone. But he remembers her falling asleep in his bed, her back pressed against his chest. But she could have left at any point in the night. The pillow next to his smells like her perfume still. And it’s warm.

Sitting up, he wipes the sweat from his brow and tries to still his hands from shaking. He has work to do. Drills would have begun hours ago. A first round of daily reports are probably already on his desk. 

In his drawer downstairs, he can feel the lyrium singing to him.

No, it’s humming from outside.

He slides out of bed and keeps the sheet wrapped around him, even though he is alone. Outside, Sabina walks along the edge of the battlements. Her hair is tied up in as tight of a bun as she can manage. She hums to herself as she walks the narrow lip of the wall. Her hands raised above her head, she extends one foot forward and then cartwheels along the beam. She does so twice more before turning back around. 

She sees him watching her and looks cross. To make amends he leaves the place at the window and dresses for the day.

When he climbs downstairs Sabina is already waiting for him. She’s sitting on the corner of his desk and reading his reports. The same ones would be sitting on her desk, but no one in the Inquisition expects her to read them. If the information is important enough, someone will take the time to summarize for her. 

“The Champion of Kirkwall is here. Varric sent for her,” she flips through pages of reports and does not look at him.

The melody in his desk drawer calls out for him. It would make everything less painful. It would ease his sweating, that heat. 

“Oh? Cassandra will be...upset.”

“I’ll deal with that later.” She places the reports back neatly in the center of his desk. Tilting her head to one side, she gestures that he should sit down. “She asked after you.”

“Yes, well, we knew each other, a bit. It was difficult in Kirkwall not to know her.”

Sabina doesn’t look upset. Only exhausted, where only a moment ago she was humming, twirling. 

“Seems that way, since apparently she’s even met Corypheus before. Killed him, even. Some good that did.” Her feet are shaking, expending nervous energy she’s building up while sitting still. “You should go talk to her. We’re heading to Crestwood tomorrow to meet this Warden friend of hers. She said she’d be in the tavern.”

“At this hour? I have work to do.” Cullen holds the report between his fingers, miming reading. 

Sabina shrugs and hops down from his desk. Her feet make no sound against the stones. “I’m not your keeper. Do what you like.”

“Wait.”

She is nearly out the door before he stops her. 

“What was your sister’s name? The one who went to the Circle?”

Sabina does not turn. Instead she stares out the door, the light catching in her curls. “Cassia.” The somber note to her voice gives him pause. He is unsure if he wants the answer to his next question.

“Where is she now?”

“When the Ostwick Circle disbanded, she went home. I assume she is still with our parents.”

With no more questions, Sabina takes her leave. 

In the end, Cullen does go to the tavern, though not until the early afternoon. He considers it a break for lunch. Though he is used to eating in his office, the change will be nice, even if Hawke will be there. 

“Son of a mabari. I didn’t think you’d show.” Marian’s feet are on the table and she has the bard’s lute in her hands. What she’s done with the bard is anyone’s guess. Putting the lute aside, she gestures to one of the barkeeps to come over. Without asking, she orders for Cullen. He doesn’t much pay attention to what she says.

“You know,” there is ale on her breath, “I should kill you right now for what you did.”

“Me?” This is already going about as well as he expected. “What about you, Hawke? How can you still protect him? After what he has done?” He tries to keep his voice low. Rumors circulate regarding the Champion and the company she keeps, but they are just that, rumors. He knows little more than that, but it is enough to cause trouble. Leliana undoubtedly knows more but is more adept at staying out of arguments.

“And I’d help him do it again, gladly.” 

She smiles warmly at the barmaid as she sets down Cullen’s mug and meal. He leaves it untouched. 

“You’re selfish, Hawke. A selfish brat.” He means every word. 

“And you’re disgusting.” She slides a folded bit of paper across the table towards him. “From my sister.”

He does not open it, he merely lets it sit loosely on the table. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“No, why would you actually give this to me?”

Hawke picks up the lute again and plucks the strings to no tune at all. Her fingers are coarse from bowstrings. “Because I’m a sucker for her. That’s why. And she’s a sucker for you.”

He remembers her limp on Meredith’s red lyrium sword. Like a ragdoll. 

He takes the note from the table and puts it, unopened, in his pocket. “Do you know what it says?”

“Of course. Now eat your meal.”

Cullen eats and listens to Hawke’s butchered melodies. She sings a nonsense song about country boys and small town girls in the big city. How Kirkwall had chewed them up and spit them out.


	5. Can't Beat Them or Join Them so Might as Well Have a Laugh at Their Expense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly nsfw art at bottom

Hawke goes ahead and steals the lute from Skyhold's bard. Wasn't a chance the girl would miss the thing. Right? Well, she can just send for another. But Hawke is leaving the next morning and forgot her flute. Also: hard to play the flute and sing and ride a horse at the same time. The lute is the much better option.

It's clear enough that the Inquisitor doesn't like her much. She has already called Hawke a terror play-acting heroine with no sense. Not for supporting the mages, but for supporting Anders, for being flippant over the death of the Grand Cleric. Like Lady Trevelyan is some sort of positive role model for the little girls and boys of Thedas. She's now trying to fashion herself as such, tying up loose ends and Leliana disappearing those who know otherwise. Varric keeps Hawke very much in the loop.

No one bothers to issue her quarters for the night so she may as well sleep with her horse in the stables. As she crosses the courtyard she plays the lute and hums to herself, trying to make up nasty things to call "Commander Cullen." As if a title change can change who he is. Seeing him again was difficult enough. So many years since their first encounter in Kirkwall, both refugees but under different circumstances. Running from different things. Back then they had all seemed so young. Bethany most of all.

That Warden is still up, working on the rocking-griffon. Hawke doesn't like him. He's so polite, posture all straight and yes ma'am, no ma'am, reminding her that she's not young anymore. Most of all, everything is suddenly about Wardens. There's a scar in the sky and an ancient magister darkspawn she could have sworn they killed on the loose, and her mind races of Wardens. Mostly she thinks of her Warden and the false whispers of the Calling ringing in his ears. There are too many things inside him already, they didn't need this.

She half-nods to Blackwall before heading up the stairs to the loft. They met, briefly when she handed over her horse to Master Dennet. She'd lied to him, said her name was Carver and she was a friend of Varric’s. So that last part isn't actually a lie.

Halfway up the stairs she thinks to ask, "Is it terribly loud?"

Blackwall thinks on it, choosing his words carefully. "Not as much as you would think."

Hawke is satisfied with his answer and heads to bed.

Her sleep is fitful, dreaming of Anders with a knife in his back, slotted between his ribs. Justice at her neck, keeping her from drawing breath. Anders above her, smiling and full of love, her hands in his hair. Darkspawn ripping her veins from her flesh like floss. And her mother’s face with another woman's eyes. A disturbed sleep for certain, but not an unusual one.

Just before dawn she can hear the rest of the traveling party tending to their horses downstairs. Blackwall is still asleep. Part of her is thankful he is not traveling with them. She pulls on her boots and takes her bow and quiver from the notches where they hang. Like usual, she's missed breakfast.

The Inquisitor sits on the lip of the well, Cullen beside her. They are not as subtle as they think. Hawke knew yesterday, when she asked after Cullen’s whereabouts, that he already had his teeth in the Inquisitor. It wasn't something Hawke had expected, that was something Varric had no knowledge of. Maybe it is a recent development. Seeing it now makes her blood boil.

They speak in hushed tones. She wears her hair down, curls falling over her shoulders and looks very much the noblewoman she is. Hawke never became accustomed to her ancestral home. Now they live in caves and abandoned shacks, hiding from mages and templars alike.

Hawke wonders if Cullen has read Bethany's letter. He must've. She wonders too if he shared the contents with Trevelyan. Perhaps not. Because she smiles, if faintly, when he brushes her hair away from her face, over the curve of her ear. Her hands are in her lap, tense, but not angry.

"Morning!" Hawke can't bear another silent moment watching them.

Cullen noticeably scowls at her presence and Trevelyan eyes her with equal disdain. It's for different reasons that the two of them don't care for her. And she doesn't give a nug's ass about either. She's not here for them. She's here because the world always goes to shit around her, and Maker, she's not losing Anders, she's not losing Bethany.

"Morning, Champion." The Inquisitor pulls her coat more tightly around herself, perhaps only as a way of occupying her hands. Hawke knows what it’s like, to be a fidgeter.

"’Champion’, ‘Inquisitor’, ‘Commander’, doesn't anyone in this world have names anymore?" She mocks. "Mar-i-an." She sounds it out like she's speaking to a small child who doesn't speak Common.

A faint smile is on Trevelyan's lips. "Alright, Marian."

"Second thought, Hawke works just fine." No one has called her Marian since she left Anders behind. It sounds weird to hear from anyone else.

Trevelyan rolls her eyes and stands. Cullen's arm is behind her, as if she would ever fall backwards into the damn well. She's exceedingly graceful, perfect balance. Hawke can tell. Maybe a childhood full of posture lessons.

"We should be off. It's seven days travel to Crestwood. I hope your Warden friend has not left by then."

"No, he said he'd wait for me. For us. He'll be there."

Trevelyan touches Cullen, at the shoulder, in that ridiculous fluff of fur around his shoulders. Her hands linger too long then run down the length of his arm. He smiles, that new scar on his lip looks dashing indeed, but he may as well have walked into a doorframe for it. Trevelyan turns away and Hawke gives Cullen an exaggerated, flourished bow.

"See you later, Knight-Captain."

"That is not my title," he's seething. Good. "I thought we were reverting to names."

Hawke scratches even deeper. "I have plenty of names for you, brother."

He stiffens. She does not miss his hands going for the hilt of his sword. Under different circumstances, she has no doubt he would try and strike her down where she stands.

"I take it you read my sister's letter?"

"Of course."

"Did you tell Trevelyan?" They do not have much time or they will cause a scene. Hawke wants to cause a scene, but for Bethany's sake, she will not force it.

"It is not a matter of her concern."

"What? That you're buggering her while you've got your secret mage bride? Because I think she might care."

The color blanches from his face, making him look even paler than he already is. That fleshy pinkness drains out of him.

They don't have time to continue their argument because the Seeker shows up. She's just as stern and intimidating as Varric said, and last she heard of it she's pissed as hell that Hawke wasn't around to run the damn Inquisition. But fuck, if they have questions about Trevelyan’s suitability, their hearts couldn't handle the stress of her.

\--

Trevelyan rides up ahead, Pentaghast at her side. Lucky for Hawke, most of the Seeker's anger was already expelled in Varric's direction earlier. Apparently the dwarf nearly got ripped in two. Varric is one of Hawke's few remaining friends, and while she's thankful he kept her out of all this for as long as possible, she would never want him imprisoned over this.

The horses cross level ground and Hawke is able to strum the lute as they ride. She sings, nearly out of tune, but not quite, pushing the very limits of what would be considered musical. With a flute she's more skilled.

 

_She watched the darkspawn slay her 'other_  
_And crossed the Waking Sea_  
_The sound of waves against our backs_  
_The City rank, dank, sad, but cover_

_Her fade-hands full of sparks and salves  
The Circle said she should not be_

_I watched that mage carve our mother_  
_And believe the lies we're told_  
_Still the Maker loves his children so_  
_That can't be taken, even from my 'over_

_She meets a man full of wheat and amber_  
_And her shackled life gives little choice._

"You’re not much of a bard, Hawke." Trevelyan interjects from up ahead.

"You gonna let her talk to me like that, Varric?"

"She's in charge now." He's no use, no use at all.

Hawke pouts and considers one of the better verses she's managed. It's a sad thing, not meant for marching triumphant.

Hawke reflects she had never once been triumphant. Even after slaying the Arishok. Then she was only exhausted, torn at the edges. With Meredith, she was run straight through. She remembers that, everyone does, who saw it. Bethany and Anders stitching her together frantically against time and blood loss. They shouldn't have been able to do it; they should have let her die. Cullen held the Knight-Commander off while the two, the only two people she had left to love, worked against time.  
  
_Promises made and never kept_  
_Waking Fade dreams, he whispers_  
_And she hears, through her door, silence_  
_Promises from his lips that he will not fail her_  
_When only failure is left to be doled._  
  
"Can't you just say what you mean, Hawke." Trevelyan doesn't bother to look back. She knows how her voice carries.

"It's not for mixed company, Trevelyan. But you're missing out on the verse about his small cock."

Trevelyan does not ask whose small cock. Maybe she's already figured it out. Maybe Cullen actually does have a small cock.

Varric shifts in his saddle, because he knows Hawke can't say it straight. He knows a lot about Hawke, that she can write lovely melodies on her flute, but always gets the words wrong. When she tries to be anything but clever and smart the ideas are all jumbled in her head.

She stows the lute and pats Varric in the back, nearly unseating him in the process. He coughs and she laughs, because she's spent too much of her life crying.

\--

They reach the outskirts of Crestwood and Hawke doesn't want to stop to camp. They're so close now and any time they waste is time away from Anders, from a semblance of home. She wants her part in all this resolved. She wants Corypheus resolved. She wants a lot of things she knows she cannot have.

Luckily, continuing on is the one thing on which she and Trevelyan can agree. Cassandra, Varric, and that Tevinter Mage Dorian, come with them. Hawke exclaims "rogue party!" And throws her fists in the air. Trevelyan calls her a child. The rest of the traveling party are left to set up camp.

It's another hour of travel before they reach Warden Alistair. There's sleep in his suspicious eyes and Hawke tells him to calm himself, this is the help she promised. The cave he hides in is crammed full of maps and books and loose parchment. There are empty lyrium bottles too. He never did kick the Templar habits. No one does.

"I'm sorry," Alistair runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm a bit on edge as of late."

"Looks like someone needs a drink." Hawke reaches into her pack and tosses him a bottle of lyrium she saved, special, just for him.

"So she really is like this with everyone."

"What?" He puts the vial on the table, but Hawke doesn't miss how his fingers linger over it.

"Annoying," Trevelyan sighs.

"I think I'm rather charming."

Alistair explains the situation to Trevelyan and her companions. The calling, Corypheus, what he's found so far, how all the other Wardens have gone mad, how he's being hunted. Hawke has heard most of it before, so she goes about cleaning, tossing empty bottles and food scraps into one corner for disposal. When Alistair's exposition drags on, she takes string from her pocket and weaves a cat's cradle. The game is no fun without someone to trap.

"So, way I see it," Hawke re-inserts herself into the conversation. "The Warden and I go scout the Western Approach, we can send you back the information you need to get your people in place. We figure out exactly what the fuck Corypheus is up to with our Warden friends.”

"And what about the Hero of Ferelden? Where is he, can he help?" The Seeker and her dreams about great big fucking heroes. As if she weren't one herself, deferring to others when she's a legend in her own right.

"He's looking for a cure for the Calling...I haven't seen him in some months."

Hawke keeps her lips sealed, for once. It is not her business. The strange thing between her cousin and Alistair. She knows little of it, only really that there is something. Despite what people believe, she has some tact.

It will take them weeks to reach the Western Approach and Trevelyan has business yet in Crestwood. Hawke has business on the Storm Coast, but she tells no one of this. Only she will be back for Alistair within the week, and for Trevelyan to leave a trustworthy scout to travel with her and the Warden.

\--

Before she goes, she speaks with Trevelyan once more. She waits ages for Pentaghast to leave her side. She sits next to the Inquisitor by the campfire and draws her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around her legs.

"You and I will never get along, that much is clear," she begins. "But I feel I should tell you this. Your Commander is not the man you think he is. Oh he is very brave, and a skilled warrior and I'm sure your men have the utmost faith in him."

Trevelyan does not speak. She stares ahead at the fire.

"But he'll say things to you, lies. He'll say he can save you, wants to save you, that you're everything, that he values you and your life above all else in this world, real romantic stuff. But he can't. He won't. They are lies."

Trevelyan laughs, "You sound like a jilted lover, Hawke."

"Not me, someone important to me."

Trevelyan covers her mouth with her hands and continues laughing. It's as if she's never considered the possibility that Cullen could even touch her, much less hurt her. Like it's not love. But Hawke saw different. Now she feels very silly.

\--

"You should not have come." Anders looks thinner than she left him. He's dressed in dark breeches and a white tunic that hangs too loosely off of his shoulders.

Hawke deposits the supplies she brought on the nearest table. "I was in the area. And it will be at least a month until Inquisitor Trevelyan makes it to our next destination." She takes his unshaven face between both of her hands and pulls him down until their lips meet. He holds her around her waist and at the back of her neck. He may say she should not have come, but his body is already reacting to her presence. It’s warm, welcoming, home. Wherever he is.

This is the thing that she fights for now, when Kirkwall took and took and took. Stole away everything she had of value. Well, she stole their healer, their criminal, their abomination.

"I don't have much time." They never do.

He smiles and rubs his thumb against the back of her neck. There’s a knot of tension there and he uses a slow burst of magic to ease it. They kiss again and she nips at his bottom lip, hoping to push him into action. Her fingers slide into the waistband of his breeches and she pulls their hips together.

“I missed you,” she purrs against him. It’s the truth.

He pushes her back into the bed, climbing over her and pinning her down. Their bodies slot together easily, his hips between her thighs. There’s a tremendous heat in her abdomen. Just thinking about this makes her wild for him. This addiction between them.

“It’s true, Warden Amell is looking to cure the Calling,” she pushes her hips against his.

In a single motion he pulls his tunic off. His weight loss is even more apparent, and he wasn’t exactly bulky to begin with. Still, she finds him beautiful, running her hands down his chest to the trail of blond hair that trails lower.

“And when he does,” he unclasps her armor, pulling it to pieces expertly. From practice he can dress and undress her just as quickly, depending on circumstance. “I’ll fill you with my seed, make you heavy with my child,” he growls against her.

“Yes, Anders, yes.” It’s only a fantasy, a painful one neither expects to come to pass. But still they shuck their breeches and he rubs his cock along the curve of her sex. Not yet penetrating her, though they both want it, fiercely. He’s warm and hard and precum weeps from the tip. Intoxicating just that he wants her so badly.

“Marian, tell me,” his self control wavers. The waiting, however, is part of the bliss.

“Fuck me.”

He sheaths himself inside her and casts a barrier at the same time. The dull thump of the spell hangs in the air. The sensation of his force surrounding her, holding her, prickles at her skin. It’s the most intimate thing she’s ever known, the way he and his magic shift around her body. Every point of her flesh touched by him.

His thrusts are vicious against her, inside her, their flesh slapping together. The burn of it is something she likes. No literal fire, only what they have for each other desperately trying to escape the shackles of their skin. She rakes her blunt fingernails down his back, hard enough to leave welts. In her ear, the litany of his voice.

“Marian. Marian. Marian.”

She calls back against the scant few inches between them.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

The barrier dissipates in time, the green cast of it fading from their skin. Anders told her that it changes the color of her eyes from ice-blue to sea-green. All she ever sees is him, the hue of him is not important.

His deft fingers rub against her until she comes undone in his hands, around his cock. At the moment of her climax her toes curl and she thrashes around him. The barrier goes back up and he swallows her cries in his mouth. His tongue breaches her mouth and they live through each other.

It’s only a few more strokes before he comes inside her, thick, heavy spurts. He groans against the shell of her ear. It’s wordless, but desperate.

She doesn’t want to lose the sensation of being filled with him, surrounded by him. But she cannot even stay the night. He is right, she should not have come, but it is an urge she cannot fight.

Art by the super talented and lovely [LadyJeanClaude](http://ladyjeanclaude.tumblr.com/)


	6. Sometimes it Sings and Sometimes it Cries but Mostly it Just Fucks You Up

Cullen waits at the gates. He sits on the edge of the well with reports stacked at his feet and one in his hands. The party sent a scout ahead some hours ago to inform her advisors that she would be returning today. Still, she had not expected him waiting.

It is not in her nature to appreciate the homecoming welcome, yet somehow she does. The ache in her bones and the soles of her feet like that he waits. But it quickly becomes apparent he has not been waiting for her when he instead pulls Cassandra aside. He only offers a short nod and an 'Inquisitor' for her. Even at a distance, she can tell his forehead is sweaty and his skin quite pale. He looked like that before they departed for Crestwood weeks ago as well.

She does not wish to dwell on Hawke's warnings.

It is quite clear to Sabina that Hawke's mind is somehow addled. After she and Warden Alistair departed Crestwood with one of the Inquisition's scouts, Sabina asked Varric about her. If she had always been so...abrasive, capricious, odd. All the things that did not seem very Champion-like. At first he said it was all in the book. And Sabina had said she read it. Varric then stressed that no one should have been made to suffer what Hawke suffered. To see her brother slain by Darkspawn, her sister carted off to the Circle, to fight an Arishok, to find her mother carved and cut into a dying doll. To have the man she loved and protected so fiercely do something so unspeakable. Varric defended that he knew 'Blondie' would hurt her all along, but she wouldn't be dissuaded. With all Hawke managed to lose, it was only a matter of time before she found something else to love, no matter how inappropriate.

None of that answered Sabina's questions. But, then again, even with the world coming to pieces, she still knows her family is fine. Her sister is perhaps safer than she was prior to the mage revolt. It rarely feels as if things are as dire as they truly are.

In her quarters, reports she will never read are piled high on her desk. She doesn't even know why they send them. There is an advisor's meeting in an hour, deliberately scheduled so she has time to bathe.

Her things, shipped across the Sea from her home in Ostwick, still remain mostly in their crates. There is little time to unpack them. It's a bit of resignation, really, that they are here now. She's not going back to Ostwick or the Marches. Maybe she can have her sister shipped as well, but they barely know one another now.

A few of her most beloved comforts have been extricated from the boxes. Oils and perfumes, paint for her nails and kohl for her eyes. Her heavy winter coat lined in fennec fur. A gown for formal events. Vivienne would be likely to deem it out of fashion in Orlais, but Sabina suspects it is appropriate for meeting with nobles at Skyhold. Orlesians may even appreciate the quaintness of Marcher style.

With the bath drawn she laces the water with oil. The scent of elfroot and citrus fills the bathchamber as she strips away her riding gear. She leaves her clothing a heap on the floor and lowers herself into the tub. The heat of it does a bit to thaw her skin.

Strange that Cullen would not first greet her.

No, perfectly fine. If he has business with Cassandra, so be it. She did not need him fussing over her, following her about Skyhold like a puppy. It is her wish, after all, that emotions stay out of the whole ordeal as much a possible.

When they are not at war, he will want a wife.

When they are not at war, she will want her freedom back.

Uneven expectations will be the death of them all if they allow it.

The uncertainty of Thedas itself is making her sentimental, producing this odd feeling that she could cling to him, find comfort in his words and gestures and kisses. That is all there is to the matter. He is handsome and fit and blushes so prettily. It is nice to return to someone pretty between her sheets.

She trails her fingers against her stomach, drawing loose, wide circles at first. The skin there is a touch lighter than her hands, which have darkened with the sun. Since the Conclave she has lost weight, making her angular frame more obvious.

She likes that Cullen is tall and broad, because she is as well. And that her breasts fit easily in his palms, even if he is hesitant sometimes to touch them. Even if he does not know quite what he is doing. Like he doesn’t know his own strength sometimes. At other times like he believes her to be made of glass. A man of thirty-something should know. Rather precious that he does not. Precious to think sex is anything more than sex.

Her hand dips lower under the water, stopping just above her dark pubic hair. The flesh of her abdomen is warm. She pauses and imagines Cullen on his back, writhing beneath her. Unsure what to do with his hands she guides them to her nipples.

In the bath she pinches them herself with her un-Anchored hand.

She thinks of him with his legs spread, open and willing, needing her to claim him. It's possessive, more so than she would normally admit to herself. Slicking oil between his legs, holding him apart. Certainly no one has had him like this. He's too proper for that, too traditional. He doesn't know what she can do to him, how she'll make him come apart.

She draws the pads of her fingers against her clit now in slow, tight circles, letting the water swirl along her sensitized flesh. Heat building between her legs and her stomach constricting as she touches herself.

The noises he makes as he comes, strangled and sated, vulnerable. She imagines him boneless underneath her touch, whimpering through his orgasm. His body greedily convulsing around her fingers.

She comes herself, but quietly. The shift of her weight does slosh some of the water from the tub and onto the stone floor. Her immediate desire quelled, the bath water begins to feel cool against her skin.

With the approaching meeting, she slides out of the bath and dresses. She pulls a dress from her crates rather than breeches and tunic. It's wrinkled but she doesn't much care. After four weeks away from Skyhold, she wants something that doesn't chafe quite so much. She leaves her hair loose, it will curl as it dries.

Cullen is not to be found in the War Room. Neither Josephine nor Leliana have seen him. They conclude the reassignment of resources without him. It's not such a terrible thing to miss a meeting, they all have at one point or another. Cullen will be notified of where to assign forces. If he doesn't deem the deployment feasible, they will reassess.

Sabina plans on departing for the Western Approach once the scout sent with Hawke returns. She cannot even assign tasks to members of her inner circle until then, not knowing who will be most useful until word arrives. Perhaps it is wrong to trust Hawke at all.

Crossing the courtyard she can hear Cassandra raising her voice in the smithy. Commanding, sure, but comforting. Then Cullen, agitated and distressed. It's none of her business, really. Except it is because the Commander of the Inquisition's armies and the woman who should have her role in all of this are fighting. It becomes her problem.

When she opens the door they freeze like children caught out by their mother. The two of them have run the smiths out already and do not seem content to fight in front of her.

Cullen looks away and wrings his hands while Cassandra lets out an exasperated sigh. Neither of them wish to be the first to speak. Sabina regrets having entered at all, she should have let the two of them hash out their disagreement in peace.

She waves her hand dismissively. "Never mind, it's not my business."

"I'm afraid it is, Inquisitor." Cullen still looks at his feet. Sweat still clings to his forehead. He is undoubtedly ill.

"Go, Commander. You are not well," she says between gritted teeth. She finds it hard to believe he is such a child to not recognize his own limits. "I will speak to Cassandra about this."

"Yes." He pushes past her, hopefully to head to bed. It is not her job to babysit her advisers and allies. Of course, Cullen of all of them would be the one to do this.

With Cullen departed, Cassandra's shoulders relax. It is not the same sort of tension and anger she carries as when she was furious with Varric. There is a deeper concern.

"Has Cullen told you he means to break his lyrium addiction?"

That gives Sabina pause. He had not confided as much. "No, he had not mentioned it."

"Lyrium keeps Templars chained to the Order, obedient, but its withdrawal can be...difficult."

"So that is the source of his symptoms? I noticed them before Crestwood."

"Yes. Cullen asked me to judge if he is suitable for Command during the process. As a Seeker, I have some experience with Templars at various stages of the addiction."

"And? Is he fit?"

"I believe him to be so, yes." but Cassandra's sighs reveal doubt. If not about Cullen's abilities, than something else. "It is a difficult, dangerous process. But I admire him for attempting it. While he asked me to evaluate him, he is now doubting my judgment."

Sabina grunts in approval. She has nothing which to compare such a process. "If you feel he is still capable I will defer to your judgement in the matter. I will speak to him at once."

_He is not the man you think he is._

Cullen may be a great many things, but Sabina would not trust Hawke's appraisal over Cassandra's, over her own.

\--

He is not in bed, so perhaps Sabina should have been more specific on where he was to go when he was told to rest. Instead he hunches over his desk, examining a small wooden box. A device for intravenous application of lyrium. Uncommon, but not unheard of.

“Commander.” At her voice he immediately stands up straight but does not close the box, does not close what he’s contemplating.

“Sabina,” he corrects himself, “Inquisitor.”

Right now she feels her place in his life is somewhere in between the two. She is torn, but the Inquisition comes first. It would not be her choice, but it is her reality.

“Cassandra informed me you intend to stop taking lyrium.”

“I already have,” he wrings his hands and stares into the box as if it is an abyss. “She is to dismiss me if it prevents me from properly serving the Inquisition.”

“And she informed me you are fine. So you are fine.”

“I’m not fine, Inquisitor.” His words bite, the title particularly vicious.

She comes back, doubling the venom. “It’s as if you do not wish to lead the Inquisition’s armies? Is that so?”

“No,” he is softer now, but does not recoil. “I wish to serve.”

Her ire does not wane. “It is irrelevant to me if you take it or not.”

He laughs at her response. It should not have been unexpected. They are adults, they are meant to act it. They are tasked with fixing Thedas, they should do it.

With care he removes the device from the case, a thick leather band to tie off his arm, a needle to administer, a well for the dosage. There is a bottle of lyrium, bright blue and out of place on his desk. Its color is otherworldly, like the Anchor in its brightness, though they are different hues. She does not want to watch as he shucks his coat and unshackles his gauntlets. He means to take it in front of her. Petulant child.

He ties off his arm so the veins come forward, patting his arm to help them rise. It’s clearly something he has done many times, well practiced. Next he draws the needle, letting the glass well fill. The lyrium glows in a way that sings to her, though she has never consumed. Not that she can remember.

She has not told the others that she can hear the red lyrium when it is close, when it is inside the Templars it has claimed. She does not know if it is the fault of the Anchor, but she must be the only one because no one else has mentioned it.

“No!” She knocks the needle from his hand and the glass well smashes against the ground. Lyrium creeps up the toe of her boots.

“Sabina?” He looks shocked, but not angry. If anything he looks relieved.

She pulls at her hair. What she has just done makes no sense. When she told him that she didn’t care what he did, only that the Inquisition needs him, she meant it. Her hands are shaking and will not stop.

“Kirkwall...did the red lyrium make you hear things as well?” Her breathing is still heavy, but she is trying.

“No,” he hesitates, “Meredith never let me near it. I did not even know she had it. I was not exposed until...I did not know until….”

“Until when?”

“When Hawke fought her at the Gallows.”

Over and over she swallows, it makes it easier to breathe. The lyrium at their feet is getting into the air, but it is refined, it should not hurt them.

“Hawke said I should not trust you, that you are a liar.”

Cullen stilled, repressing something. “It did not speak to me, I promise you.”

“Do not take it. Don’t. If you can.”

“I will try, if it is your wish.”

“No,” she holds his arm, untying the knot at his elbow. “If it is your wish.”

He smiles, but it is not quite happy. "It is."

She takes the box up from his desk and drops it to the floor. The wood splitters apart on impact in a satisfying way. Cullen does not seem to think it odd. Maybe they both need this. Just to smash things until they feel relieved from weight they unknowingly carry.


	7. Strictly Speaking No One Really Has Their Act III Together

Sabina wants to go upstairs. She tells Cullen as much and holds his hands, running her thumbs over his knuckles. Her nails are carefully painted the color of blood. The hue has that same tinge of rust.

He should clean up the smashed lyrium bottle, the splinters of wood, the evidence of his current round of weakness, but instead he follows her up the ladder to his sleeping quarters. When he realizes he can see up her skirts, he averts his eyes until she is finished ascending. Even though she has seen her naked, it seems like an invasion.

She doesn’t waste any time. "I need to know more about Hawke." It's not a question that Cullen was expecting.

Bethany's note is tucked away in one of the thicker books on his shelf. The words of it dance in front of his face, taunting. He remembers them all.

"Varric isn't telling me something. Something he didn't write down." Sabina paces the floorboards, careful where they are uneven but still with nervous energy.

"I'm afraid I haven't read his book."

She looks genuinely surprised. "You know you're in it, right?"

"From what I've heard, only at the end." Honestly he has no intention of reading about a set of horrors he already lived through.

She grunts, “Mostly, but all through it really. Anyway, Varric makes her sound like a hero. The book makes her seem that way too. But in front of my face? All I see is an overgrown child. Is it my own prejudices that make it difficult for me to see?"

"I'm afraid I'm not as neutral a party as you might have hoped." He dances around what he should tell her. But it pains him to think Hawke is right, that Sabina should know.

Sabina sighs and puts a hand to her forehead, then drops it to her chin. Her pacing continues. He must say something.

"I can tell you...she's not wrong. About me. About liars."

With that her movement stops, her hand drops to her side and she looks at Cullen like he's something strange.

"We all lie, Cullen. I, of all people, am in no place to judge." She pointedly does not ask why he is a liar.

"I will be right back." He steps forward and kisses her forehead. When she doesn't pull back, he is all the more resolved he must tell her now. She thinks she is so clever, implying that she could not love as he loves. But she's given too much away already. That idea shattered with the lyrium bottle. Yes, the Inquisition must come first, but she would not let its success ruin him.

The note is hidden in a thick tome on advanced siege tactics. It's not a topic Cullen was experienced with before Kirkwall. After the Gallows, he made it a priority to understand warcraft beyond his templar training.

The paper feels thin, delicate, like Bethany's looping handwriting. He reads it again while he can hear Sabina moving around upstairs. The sound carries more than he would have thought. He locks the doors to the tower. It's selfish and will impede Inquisition business, but right now they are more Cullen and Sabina than Commander and Inquisitor. They still need to learn to walk that tightrope.

When he makes it back up the ladder, she is sitting on his bed. Her skirt pools around her hips and thighs and her feet are now bare. She intends on staying and that makes him want to eat the letter before she can see it. He wants to tell her that he loves her now because there is the faintest chance that she may return his affections. But it is too early for her and he knows it. It may be too late after.

"This," he could still shred it, "is from Hawke's sister."

Sabina reaches her hand out intending to take. He hesitates, but then gives it over.

As she reads her eyes narrow and widen. Cullen stands perfectly still and watches her, hands clasped behind his back. He wonders how many knives she has concealed in her skirts, if they would be warm from the heat of her body, which one she will use to threaten him. Perhaps one with the scent of her inner thigh, sweet and dangerous. One of her feet rubs against the other. She flips the page over, but it is blank on the other side.

"This doesn't tell me anything about Hawke." Her voice is frustrated, but not necessarily angry. She passes the letter back to him.

"I did not intend it to." He holds the paper loosely in his hand. Now that she knows its contents, he does not wish to retain it any longer.

She lets her head fall against the mattress, her feet still hanging off the edge of the bed. It's a more relaxed response in front of him than he has seen thus far.

"You want a comment, don't you?" Her eyes stay transfixed on the ceiling.

"I was expecting as much, yes."

"You promised to marry Bethany Hawke. Maybe once we are done here, you will. She writes very prettily and seems to love you very much. You could send for her now, if you wish. She would be safer here than under the protection of her sister."

He sits next to her on the bed and touches the end of her curls. She is still in his bed and he does not know what that means. Maybe only that she is not as easily driven away now as she was when this affair first started.

"I do not feel the same way now as I did in Kirkwall. The world seemed smaller then."

It did. Kirkwall felt insular, but out of control. Even if he did not know the extent of the Knight-Commander’s paranoia, he knew the coiling, desperate anxiety of the mages under his watch and templars under his command. His entire life was restricted to his repressed dreams and the suppressed Gallows. And Bethany, young and beautiful, devout and an apostate. She made him imagine a different life within the confines of his existing one. But that is not his life now.

"Time changes us. Perhaps after this war you will love her again."

That is not something he can deny outright, but right now he wants to scream that he loves her, and only her. That he will kneel before Sabina's feet and beg for forgiveness, but she does not need it, does not want it. She is not jealous, only practical.

"Cullen, tell me to stay or tell me to go. I will do either." Her voice is soft. "Even if you intend to marry her later, that need not influence your decision now."

He grabs her legs and rearranges her on the bed, so she is laying properly. His jacket is cumbersome but he crawls into bed with it on anyway and pulls Sabina to his chest, smells the elfroot in her hair, the hint of citrus.

She recoils at first instinct, then settles back against his chest. This has made the difficult impossible. She accepts this as if it is normal for her, stealing time from a man who is not, strictly speaking, hers. Perhaps it is even more comfortable than the idea of simply being his.

"I will write Bethany in the morning." He speaks against her hair. "Tell her that she is freed from my promise. She is young and will love again. If nothing else, her sister will be ecstatic with the turn of events."

"Don't do this on my account. You should be happy."

He is though, he is happy that Sabina is here, alive and beautiful. Even if she fights him every step. Even if she is not as free and open with her love as Bethany. It's hard and quiet, winning Sabina's love, but he does not mind it in the least.

"She loves you. I do not."

The way her voice fades out makes it clear enough that she says one thing because the other hurts too much. He resolves to start over.

\--

For the first time Cullen wakes and finds Sabina still in his bed. The sun is just cresting over the mountain and her hair is matted against the back of her head. He sighs with relief that she hasn't run off to some far flung corner of Thedas without warning. It seems like something she would do, given the circumstances.

She's still in her dress and downstairs the lyrium must still be on the floorboards, what hasn't evaporated. It's a messy situation.

There's knocking at the door downstairs.

He’s decent enough, so he descends the ladder and opens the door. It’s not who he expected. Sera rocks on her heels and asks for Lady Trevelyan, because she wasn’t in her quarters and she wasn’t in the tavern and so she must be here. While the elf rambles he unlocks the other doors so the tower is again accessible.

“What makes you think she would be here?”

“Oh,” Sera tilts her head to one side, “are we pretending you two aren’t shagging? No one told me that.” She breezes past him and shouts up the ladder. “Lady Trevelyan! Oi! I’ve got word of somethin’.”

“Makers breath, Sera, she’s still asleep.”

“And I’ve got shite to do, that involves her. So wake her up.”

“Just go,” he pushes her towards the door. “I’ll send her along.”

Locking her out isn’t an option so he can only hope that Sera doesn’t go bounding upstairs without any regard for privacy. Luckily she appears to stay gone while he wipes away the lyrium remnants. A blue stain stays behind. There isn’t much left and it’s so evaporated as to lose any seductive quality it may have had. Even then the habit of it makes him wish to press it to his tongue.

None of his morning reports have arrived and he returns to Sabina. She’s awake and runs her fingers through her messy hair. It’s clear enough she has been waiting for him to return.

“I’m sorry if I woke you.” He pours water from the pitcher and offers it to her. She accepts, but does not drink.

“No, I should be going. There must be something that needs my attention.”

He should say ‘of course, Inquisitor,’ but they are upstairs. Her eyes are still full of sleep and her hair a mess. She slept in yesterday’s clothes and woke up alone in his bed, as he has woken up alone in his bed. Their comings and goings are rarely synchronized.

“I need something of you, Cullen. I wish I could say it is strictly for the Inquisition, but it is not.”

“Everything we do needn’t be in service.” They’d go mad if it were. Maybe they are going mad.

“I need you to read Varric’s book. I need you to make note of things he left out, fill in the holes. Regardless of how I feel, Hawke is an ally with clout. So it is Inquisition business...but…”

“On a personal level you do not like her.”

“She’s not right. The way she sings. Can’t you hear it, when you’re around her?”

He thinks back on the few moments he has shared with Hawke since leaving Kirkwall. She’s been brash, sarcastic, a bit annoying, prone to song. Not very different than she was before. Only maybe amplified. The same Hawke, only doubled.

“I’m afraid she has always made me somewhat uneasy.”

Sabina puts aside the untouched water and climbs out of bed. He offers her a hand but she does not take it. Fixes the drape of her skirt and takes another stab at her hair. It does little to soften her appearance. She looks like a woman who did not go home to her own bed, which, strictly speaking, she is. And he did not even take her last night.

“Read the book, let me know.”

Before heading out she puts a manicured hand at the side of his neck and looks at him very intently. The edge of her nail is sharp against his skin.

“When the day is over, may I come back?” Her tongue sits with just the tip past her teeth.

Nothing could have made him smile more, “I would like that, very much.”

She nods curtly and grabs him with both hands at the front of his shirt, holding him in place while she presses their lips together. Many of her kisses are aggressive, hungry, pushing past what one would be tempted to call affection. But this one is brief, somehow that makes it all the more intimate.

\--

Sabina leaves Skyhold later in the morning, Sera, Dorian, and Bull in tow. It is unusual for her to leave Cassandra behind. She says nothing to him directly and he only learns of it in a missive.

He confirms force allocations with Leliana so they do not step on each other’s toes and approves half a dozen requisition requests. After that he sets about reading the first few chapters of Varric’s book. He skips the chapter on Ferelden, he did not know Hawke then. Leafing through, he finds the paragraphs on Bethany being taken to the Circle.

Little details have been left out. Of course they have, Varric was not there to record the event, he would have only heard it second hand from Hawke. It does not cover how Hawke tried to punch him in the face and, failing that, how she screamed and clawed at his eyes. Bethany calmed her, eventually, but not quite as it went in Varric’s tale. There is no note of Hawke’s incarceration after the event. Surely Varric knew of that, Cullen heard it was the dwarf who posted her bail.

So yes, simply put, Varric’s tale is not accurate.

He continues scanning, looking for Anders’ name. It appears often enough. In particular he is looking for an incident at the Gallows where Hawke came to visit her sister, but did not end up entering the Circle. Of this event he finds no record.

Cullen cannot remember if Varric was with her or not, probably not. He remembers Anders being profoundly uncomfortable for having come at all. Fair enough for an apostate, though Cullen did not know this at the time. Hawke was already deemed “the Champion” by then, so her behavior was somewhat excused like many other eccentric noblepeople. She counted bricks in the facade and told Anders she wanted to see her brother and her sister. Without one she no longer wanted the other. Too painful to see them parted. Her brother must have been here too. She felt echos of him in the stones. She was so alone; they would take him too. Anders kissed her forehead and said they should leave, this was no place for them. Cullen watched them both with suspicion until Anders half-carried her out.

He makes a note to tell the Inquisitor about this missing episode.

He fears the end the most. When the red lyrium stripped away the last vestiges of the Knight-Commander’s humanity. When it took her sincere concern and mangled it into a creature he could not recognize as any demon or human or other abomination. The story there is not one he wishes to read.

Carefully, he goes over the account.

His most vivid memory of the battle is not there. He turns back through the pages, checks to make sure they are not stuck together. This was certainly something Varric saw, but did not write.

The blood runs out of the corners of her mouth as she slides down Meredith’s sword. Skin peels apart to make space for the weapon. She should have been split in two but the edges of her body hold together. A bow drops. Mouth open but no scream. Kirkwall is burning and its Champion is dying. He bashes his shield into her side. Meredith feels it. Her direction refocuses. With a flick of the sword, Hawke’s body flies off of it like a broken doll and hits the stone wall. Crumples. Anders and Bethany race for her. Without them there is no healer for the rest. They must make due. He must hold. He must hold or they all die. Aveline is already overwhelmed by the living statues, the elven mage using what small healing skill she has to keep them afloat. Varric tosses elfroot potions down from where he is perched.

Bethany crying and healing. ‘Sister, sister, sister.’

Anders silent. Only working.

A fit of coughing. Her armor is a mess. But she draws her bow, she fights, she lives. Impossibly, she wins.

_The way she sings._


	8. Dear Asshole, I Hope You Enjoy the View of Our Untimely Demise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters between Wardens Alistair Therin and Daylen Amell.

Alistair--

I hope you understand why I have to do this. It is for the good of all of us. These rumors regarding a cure for the Calling cannot go uninvestigated. If the Wardens will not act cohesively, decisively, I must do this alone.

Please forgive me for what I have done, but know that while this is on our account, you have not driven me away.

-Daylen

\--

Daylen,

Get back here this instant you sod. Why would you do this alone?

-Alistair

\--

Alistair--

If I need assistance I will send for it. But I expect no help from the Wardens. We need not both be punished for my offenses.

-Daylen

\--

Daylen,

No it is simply because you did not wish for me to accompany you. Please, I should not have reacted as I did, but let me join you now.

-Alistair

\--

Alistair--

I am the one who acted in error. I am sorry. But no, you cannot follow me.

-Daylen

\--

Fuck off then.

\--

Daylen,

I am sorry. I should not have been so coarse. I did not mean it. I hope you know. Maybe I will not send this letter. Maker, I feel I’ve written you dozens of times over the last several months, only to burn the parchment. None of them sounded right. None of them sounded like me.

Is it too much to believe if I were to say I didn’t have the slightest idea? I thought we were friends, you are like a brother to me. Through everything you have been there for me, like no one else, as I hope I have been there for you. Maker, I always figured you just weren’t very interested in notions like love. I know in the Circle such attachments were discouraged. Then again, you haven’t been in the Circle in a very long time. I don’t know what I thought.

So please, don’t hate me because I threw up on your boots.

-Alistair

\--

Alistair--

This isn’t about my boots.

\--

I know.

\--

Alistair--

I’m making some progress with the cure, though I feel it unwise to say anything more detailed than that in a letter, lest it fall into the wrong hands. It does, however, seem possible that we may dodge our grim fates once again. I’m working with a Dalish fellow who is quite well read in both his native tongue and in Trade, unusual among his people.

-Daylen

\--

I bet he didn’t throw up on your boots.

\--

Alistair--

I live for the day that your correspondence does not reduce us to sniping at one another. Your particular brand of charm loses something when reduced to text. Look, if you are implying that I responded to your rejection by running away into the Wilds to caboodle with the first Dalish who would have me, you must not have had a very high opinion of me in the first place.

We will always be friends. As long as you will have me as yours.

-Daylen

\--

I didn’t mean to reject you.

\--Alistair

\--

Don’t do this to me.

\--Daylen

\--

Daylen,

I know I have not written in quite some time. It’s about the Calling. The leadership here is proposing some drastic measures. There is a mage, from Tevinter, I do not trust him but I also do not have the rank to object. We may need you. I’m worried about blood magic.

\--Alistair

\--

Alistair--

So you hear it as well? I have received messages from others, vague things from Wardens I do not remember, recalling me to Adamant. I am more resolved as than ever I must continue here. We must find a cure. This is madness. Do not go to them. I do not like it either. I’ll think of something.

\--Daylen

\--

Daylen,

I spoke up. I was told to fall in line. For once, I said no.

Don’t hate me. I sent for your cousin. If you will not help me, I do not know who else to ask.

\--

Alistair--

I am helping, you sod.

\--

Daylen,

Hawke has arrived. I’ve told her everything. I assume you have heard as much from your other sources. I know you hear it in your mind. It’s so loud sometimes. It’s the loudness that doesn’t make me trust it. No one ever said it should be this consuming. I can barely sleep for it.

She has been sneaking around some Warden camps. The few that still linger. They are looking for me, and for you. Be safe.

-Alistair

\--

Alistair--

I have not received messages from anyone but you for weeks now. It is very loud for me as well. It clutches at my throat until I cannot breathe. It whispers lies in my ears. I’ve never experienced something so painful. It’s worse than the demons at my Harrowing.

I always assumed we’d go at the same time, but not like this.

\--Daylen

\--

I need you to know, I didn’t want to throw up on your boots.

\--

Daylen,

The Inquisition is going to aid Hawke and I. We believe we fight the same enemy.

I dreamt last night of you. I need you to know that. Maker, I need you to know a lot of things. I need to say them to your face. So please, we both need to live for that, okay?

We are headed away. I can’t keep my head clear. The lyrium helps. Does it help you? I hope it soothes you.

-Alistair


	9. Keep these Secrets and Maybe One Day the Lies Will Stop

Sera kicks and screams and yells. She flails about until the noble’s blood and vomit cake her boots. Behind her, Sabina can hear Dorian tisk in disgust. Bull is silent. But Sabina does not look away as Sera messily works. Perhaps it is her place to say something. The noble is dead and Sabina doesn’t care. Part of her wants to be the one tearing him to pieces. But she cannot, so she allows Sera to do as she pleases. In all likelihood it was a painful death. Certainly was brutal to watch.

She takes an arrow in her tiny fist and shoves it through his eye socket, then another. They don’t go all the way through his skull, but they serve their purpose well enough. The sight is horrific, sadistic. Breathing heavily, Sera has finally worn herself out. The blood is on Sabina’s armor as well, scuffed across her breeches and boots. She stood too close, but it was her place to see.

“We should go, Sera.”

The elf wipes her nose on her sleeve and nods. It does nothing to remove the blood. When they turn around, Dorian and Bull are gone, perhaps already down the hill with the horses. Part of her knew that this would end poorly. Things with Sera often had a way of going sour, or at least weird, so they traveled alone. Cassandra would have stopped this. Good that the Seeker was not here to witness.

Dorian and Bull are with the horses, speaking in low voices to each other. The concern on Dorian’s face is unmistakable, but if anyone is to speak to her about Sera’s behavior, it will be Bull.

“Not a word of what happened here, to anyone,” Sabina warns and mounts her horse.

Bull grumbles, low but unconvinced, “Sure, boss.”

Only silence from Dorian.

They ride in uncomfortable tranquility. Sera next to her, Dorian and Bull behind them. The sound of birds follows their path. She wishes to return to Skyhold. Each of these steps brings her closer to the end, at least, she hopes as much. But she is also less certain day by day what end that will be.

In the early days of the Inquisition, when she was an unwilling participant in Cassandra and Leliana’s machinations, she assumed she would return to the Free Marches. Likely she would marry someone as disinterested in her as she was in him, pop out a non-mage child to appease her parents’ expectations, and resume her life as she wished.

Now she is not so sure she wishes to return. Indeed, she wants this all to be over, for Thedas to know something approaching peace, though that may be outright impossible. But she is unsure she would be content with a life vacillating between petty nobility and the shadows. More than that, she knows there is no going home. Not to the home she knew. She is irrevocably changed.

She is more now than she ever anticipated being.

And Cullen.

“Lady Trevelyan,” only Sera calls her that. To everyone else she is Inquisitor, sometimes Lady Inquisitor, upstairs, in Cullen’s chambers, she’s a specter of Sabina. Only Sera calls her Lady Trevelyan. She does not know why.

“Yes, Sera?”

“You’re weird for ah noble, you know that?” She scrunches her face when she speaks, like the words stink to admit.

“No I’m not.”

“Ya, you’re. I wudn’t like you otherwise.”

“No, you had it right before. Sera, all nobles are the same. Just like you said. Only you see us from different perspectives.”

“Tha’s too complicated. I know I like you. And I don’t very much like other nobles.”

“Given the chance, you’d hate me too.”

“Naw.”

Sabina waves off the suggestion. She knows the only difference between her and the man who’s just a pile of torn up pieces on the side of the road is that Sera’s seen her at her best, and him at his worst. She’s not Orlesian, she doesn’t know The Game, but she can game just fine.

“Lady Trevelyan.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t ya stop me. I thought you would. Well, not at the time. At the time I was thinking about how squishy he was against my boot. But now, when I think about it. I think you woulda stopped me.”

The answer to that is too complicated, so Sabina thinks on her feet, crafts a clever statement that doesn’t go ‘I wish I were you, but I wish I were him too.’

“He’ll make a pretty rumor.”

\--

It’s closer to dawn than midnight when they reach Skyhold. Dorian is dead on his feet and Sabina does not miss how Bull reaches out to steady him off his horse. On the other hand, Sera still cycles between giddiness and a sort of morose resignation. She’s like a child who is both hyperactive and exhausted. Perhaps Sabina should not have pushed them so hard, to complete the trip and task in only a few days, but she did not wish to be away from Skyhold so long. She needs that report from Hawke.

She should return to her quarters, bathe, change, flip through reports for anything needing her immediate attention. But she does not. She feeds her horse sugar from her hand and when he is satisfied, licking up the residue in long swipes, she leaves the stables. She climbs the stairs to the battlements and finds Cullen’s door unlocked.

The candles are out, but she is adept at making out objects in low light. When she ascends the ladder it creaks under her feet. No sound comes from above. It is not until she is in Cullen’s bedchamber that she hears his low whine.

He is experiencing some sort of nightmare. Kicking away the sheets he curls his frame on the bed, fists the sheets, and groans. She can discern his figure, but little else. Frozen, she does not move towards him, but only watches as he fights his dreams. Perhaps he needs comfort, but she doesn’t know how. She’d rather flee back to her own chambers, but she does not. She waits. He calms.

“Neria.” Like a curse.

He sits bolt upright and his hands fly to this throat, as if trying to pull someone away. With his eyes now open, he startles awake and must see her, silent at the foot of his bed. At first she does not move for him, not until an apology drops from his mouth.

“Sabina, I’m sorry.”

“No, I don’t know…” And she really doesn’t. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with the fact she cares, but does not know how to properly care. That she would know how to abscond but not how to stay. Because she does not know what to say, she unhooks the buckle to her riding jacket. “You said I could come back.”

His hand is pressed to his forehead. “Yes, of course. That was five days ago, but yes. I’m glad.”

Once she is stripped to her smalls she climbs into bed with him, straddling his hips. Batting his hand away and taking his face between her hands, she studies his features in the dark. His eyes are clear and his stubble sharp under her palms. He looks up and waits. She must say something.

“Our duty comes first.”

“Of course,” he tilts his head in his hands and kisses her left palm. He sighs deeply, “of course.”

At first she still holds his cheeks as they kiss. She knows her lips are dry. His forehead is still sweaty. There are questions about his dreams, of course there are, but now is not the time to ask. He is infinitely warmer than the cool air that whipped against her skin as she rode. That warmth pricks at her. She wants to tell him.

He presses back with his kisses and grasps her wrists, pulling them away from his face and placing her arms around his neck instead. His arms wrap around her waist and pull her close. She wants to believe his heart races for her and not for his nightmare. Not for the ever-present fears they both carry.

Removing her breast band he kisses his way down her neck to her sternum. He takes one dark nipple into his mouth and sucks at it. His tongue presses against it in steady circles.

“Cullen.”

She rakes her fingers up his back to his shoulder blades and feels his muscles tighten under the scrape. He murmurs something unintelligible against her skin and she grips harder into his flesh until he gasps. So pretty. His eyes stay closed as he moves from one nipple to the next. Beneath her he is already hard, pressing against her groin as she rolls her hips against him.

“Open your eyes, Cullen.”

He does and she holds back her voice. What she wants is to scream at him, that he has made her mad. Made her re-prioritize her already jumbled up life. He wasn’t supposed to do that. They were supposed to fuck, command, control. She was supposed to get a hold of herself and vanish in a puff of smoke from his bed, like she always has. But now she can’t and it makes her furious.

She grabs his hands from around his waist. His wrists are too large for her to hold together easily. If he is to be restrained, it is by his choice alone. He must want it. So she takes both his wrists between both her hands and pushes him back against the mattress. She pins his hands above his head and he keeps them there, even after she has released them.

Shifting her weight, she removes her smalls and climbs atop him, curling her legs beneath her and holding her sex only a few inches from his face. She can feel his breathing below her.

“I assume you know what to do?”

“Maker, yes,” it’s a plea. One that hits her hard.

She lowers her hips the remainder of the distance and he licks against her. One of her hands she presses against his wrists, keeping his arms pinned down. He does not fight it, but the muscles in his arms tense, his hands roll into fists.

Her other hand she uses to part her folds. He licks against her eagerly. Like all his acts, it’s more enthusiasm than finesse. But that does not matter. She has had finesse. She has had enthusiasm before as well, but not like this. Not in the way he tries to learn her, understand what brings her pleasure, for next time. Because there will be a next time.

Rocking her hips against his face, she moans slightly, encouraging him as he finds the right motion. Lovely, tight circles against her clit. His mouth is warm, wet, and soft. Where his stubble brushes against her sex, he is rough, sharp. She does not mind the contrast.

His hips buck into the air but he does not move his arms, remaining voluntarily in her grasp. But under her fingers she can feel the control it takes. She lingers on the thought of how he could crush her, easily overpower her, but he does not. He focuses on her noises, her movements. She has him, completely.

This time she does not stifle the noises of her pleasure. Panting out his name as she comes. It is as much from knowing why he treats her so as from his ministrations, though he has been a quick study.

She releases his hands and commands, “Touch yourself.”

And he obeys, pulling out his erection and letting his hand fly over it in practiced strokes. She keeps herself pressed against his mouth and he continues lapping at her sex, though with less control than before. She tangles one hand now in his hair and holds him against her. Like this she could come again.

“Good boy, good boy, good boy. Good,” she punctuates.

And she can feel him groan against her, low and guttural. As possessive of her as she has found herself of him. She looks down, his golden eyelashes pressed against his cheeks, catching the rising sun. His face between her legs. He looks so good she could die. Instead she comes again and lets go of his hair. She needs both arms to hold her weight.

He comes, semen splashing against his abdomen and some against her back. She climbs off of him so he can better breathe. Deep gulps of air, both of them. They’re catching up. She presses a hand to her own chest as she breathes.

Cullen is still motionless other than the rise and fall of his chest. His face looks as if he’s dreaming with his eyes open. She wants to kiss his eyelashes. Tell him how beautiful she finds them. But it seems sentimental, like something he would say.

\--

The scout sent with Hawke arrives by mid-day. The Inquisitor calls a meeting in the War Room, including Cassandra. They discuss the next steps for the Western Approach. There is certainly Venatori activity. And Wardens. Probably blood magic. She should send Cassandra and another party to the Hissing Wastes. Reports place the Venatori everywhere. But no, she keeps Cassandra close and decides to send Blackwall into the Wastes instead. If Wardens are bent on killing Wardens, best to send him elsewhere.

With allocations completed, the Commander pulls her aside. Says there is a matter to discuss, one he would rather address in private. Leliana snickers at that and Josephine giggles. Cassandra is notably silent. Sabina pays them no mind and they depart for her quarters, her arms full of reports she won’t read.

“It’s about Hawke,” Cullen says once the lock clicks closed.

She nods curtly for him to take a seat while she stands behind her desk. There’s no room for the reports. They go on the floor instead.

“As you asked, I read through The Tale of the Champion. And made a series of notes. Events that were left out, or described otherwise than what I remember.”

“And? Don’t hand me the notes, I’ll never read them.”

He quirks a smile. “Of course not, Inquisitor.” Almost as quickly his expression darkens. “Hawke was indeed less stable than Varric described. But, in her defense, there were matters in her life of which I was not aware that would account for such behavior. I did not know of the relatively recent death of her brother when I was tasked with taking her sister to the Circle.”

Sabina winces. Sisters and Circles are not the fondest of her memories.

“But, she did attack me, physically, when I was in Gamlen Amell’s home. She spent the night in jail, but no charges ever came. I had filed the appropriate papers for such an incident but well, Kirkwall politics are not exactly clean.”

“Show me a state with clean politics,” she tries to keep the mood light, knowing Cullen would not be here if it was just a case of Hawke being rowdy.

“As I said before, she was always rather exuberant. It actually is part of what made her quite popular among the nobility. Injection of life I suppose.”

Sabina waves him to continue, “There must be something more than her being an ass. You could have told me that in front of the others.”

“Yes, well, this has to do with you as well,” he clears his throat. “You said you can hear her sing?”

“Of course, she has that lute, and ridiculous lyrics that went with her melodies. She’s so loud. I can barely hear anything else when I’m near her.”

“Yes, her singing, but,” he pauses. “You phrased it a different way, before. Do you remember what you said?”

It hits Sabina at once, the thing she had been trying to hide from the others. Because no one else had mentioned hearing it. Not the mages, not Varric, no one. “What did I say.”

“Inquisitor, I know you are not a mage, but have you been drinking lyrium?”

She averts her eyes. Her mind races. Lie, lie, lie.

“Yes, I thought that it would increase my control over the Anchor.” Sweet pretty lie, the one that keeps her secret safe.

“Sabina…” he looks at her with profound disappointment. “How could you? How long?”

“Since Haven.” She covers her face with her hands.

His voice is soft. “Yes, of course.” And with that he switches back to exposition, information. “Varric leaves out some of the details of the battle with the Knight-Commander.” He no longer meets her eyes. “Hawke was impaled on her sword, the one crafted of red lyrium. I cannot explain to you how she lived, even how she recovered enough to rejoin the battle. But there may be a chance Hawke became somehow...infected. Perhaps a piece of the sword lodged inside her? If that is the case, the lyrium you have been drinking may be interacting with the red lyrium inside her. This is all speculation. It is not my area of expertise, only that Templars have a similar sensation of hearing lyrium. But I have not noticed it with Hawke myself. I was not listening for it, and there is probably little, if any, left in my bloodstream at this point.”

“I will ask Dagna. Say nothing to anyone about this until we are certain. It is not an accusation we can make lightly.” She has no intention of telling Dagna, nor anyone. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” he shifts in his seat, “Inquisitor,” he has something else to say, but she doesn’t permit it.

“You are dismissed, then, Commander.”

He rises from his seat and heads for the door. He turns before he goes, of course he does, because he cannot accept this lie she has chosen. “Sabina, you should...it is not worth the risk.”

She leans back in her chair, letting her boots scuff against the floor. Perhaps he knows she has lied. If she were taking it, would he know? Would he feel it on her skin? Taste it in her mouth? When they fuck? Of course. She is a very good liar, but this time he has caught her. The ambiguity of his statement reveals as much.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

He nods in acknowledgement before departing.


	10. Maybe We Sort of Have Feelings but Let's Table That for Now

Cullen requests a moment alone with the Inquisitor, if she may spare it. Josephine and Leliana cannot leave the room fast enough. Even before they exit they speak to each other to fill the harsh silence. The strain between himself and the Inquisitor has been quite clear since her return from the Western Approach. Rumors do not carry whole truths, but they do know enough of it.

Sabina gathers her things, taking her time, avoiding his gaze. They avoid many things now. They have not touched since her return, keeping their distance. He has forgotten what she smells like. How her hair feels. A lingering suspicion tells him she has forgotten even more than that.

But they have run out of time. Tomorrow he departs for Adamant. They will not travel together and it may be a full week more until she departs from Skyhold. Her party will travel more swiftly and has fewer preparations to make upon arrival. And he is the lumbering giant to cut a path for her. He does not mind, it is his duty, after all.

It is not his duty to love her, or for her to love him. And yet he dwells on it. He dwells on the reality that since her return, she has not come to his quarters. Nor does she look him in the eye. They are strangers really. He should learn to accept as much. But in the end, he refuses. Too many times he has cowered. Not again.

They do not speak as they move from the War Room to her quarters. Upon arrival she offers him a seat but he does not take it, choosing instead to stand. She looks run ragged, with her hair in tangles and her skin dull. He would say she has not been sleeping, but he could not confirm that. All he can say is he wishes to help, but not as her Commander.

“What is it?” she barks. The Anchor glows with her frustration. Pulsing green and otherworldly. Too often they forget it is affixed to her, that she cannot simply turn it on and off at will. That she does not have a lifetime of practice and control. It has only been about a year it has been hers, or she has been its.

“What did you observe of Hawke?” He wants to ask after her, but she will not accept that here. Here she is the Inquisitor. “Could you hear it?”

She rests her chin on the un-Anchored hand and exhales loudly. Very careful she chooses her words. Fair enough, he has done the same.

“What is it you wish to hear, Commander? Because we both know it is not about Hawke.” She flexes and curls with the Anchored hand, bringing up the glow and aiming it at various objects around her office space. Nothing comes of it, she simply radiates.

There is no tactful way to broach the subject. “Why do you no longer want me?”

She stops with the Anchor, lets the glow dissipate entirely. “I do not have time for this.”

“There will never be time.”

“I suppose not, Commander.”

\--

They have resolved nothing. And yet she comes to him. He sleeps for an hour before the sound of feet on the creaking ladder wakes him. If she wished to come silently, she well may have. This is meant to be secret, but not a surprise. It is only hours before his departure. Indeed, there is no time.

He listens to the sound of her disrobing, picturing her flesh with his eyes closed. Her broad shoulders, the small swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the patch of dark hair over her sex. His eyes stay closed, waiting for her to meet him. To say anything.

But only the silence remains even as the mattress sinks under her weight. She’s under the sheets with him, her hands at his chest. Dancing. Everything she does is dancing. And she’s beautiful in motion. Not meant to be still.

“How do you want me?” Her breath is against the shell of his ear, warm and moist. So inviting. She seduces him all over again in that moment. If only could be as adept, maybe she would not run away.

“Alive, mine, as you are,” he lists the ways he wants her. “As you wish to be.”

She covers his body with hers, the sheets riding up and exposing his feet to the cool night air. Her lips are colder than the rest of her. His hands grab at her arms holding her above him. If only they had light. Her eyes are always so dark. He can feel the hair on her arms prick up in arousal as their lips continue to meet, as he pushes past her teeth, as she bites down gently, playfully.

It has been days since he touched himself and in her presence and under her body he grows hard. Her thighs squeeze at him as they draw breaths from each other. Hands move from her arms to her breasts and she smiles against him. As if this were all so easy. As if they have not spent weeks away, weeks in shimmering disappointment and disdain.

There are no traces of lyrium in her mouth. But he knew that was a lie from the start. What her truth is, he must ask. But for now he is too drunk on elfroot and citrus and the soft curl of her hair. He is drunk on thoughts he cannot voice. No, he should voice. He should not be afraid. Just because she might be.

“Sabina.”

Her mouth travels down his chest, tongue moistening each nipple before delving further. She presses her palms against the jut of his hipbones, holding him down as she bites at his stomach something feral.

It is not the best way, but it is the only way, because he cannot wait.

“Sabina, I love you.”

She doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t flee, so that is a victory in itself. Maybe just a sharp inhalation. Instead she pulls away his smalls and places the very tip of his erection into her mouth. Laps at him deliberately while stroking him with her hand to the root. Her hands are her finest tools. For beckoning and picking locks. For wielding small, dangerous things. Her mouth is for lying but for now she uses it to bring him pleasure. He is well aware he is profoundly lucky, even if he’d rather have her words instead.

She throats him deeper, her hand coming away to touch him between his legs. Her nails scratch along too-sensitive flesh, the flat of her finger stroking along the curve of him. Maker, she will be his demise and he does not mind.

He props himself up on his elbows to watch her. A tousled head of dark curly hair between his legs. His hand reaches for her hair, holding on, but only gently. She bobs and sucks and he wants her where he can see her. Her finger presses against him, but it is dry and he does not try to breach him. But still there is a thrill to it. The way she dances around it. The way she threatened before. No, not threatened, offered.

Her task ceases and she ascends to devour his mouth again. This time it is she who speaks, hurriedly, between machinations.

“I will make you come, but only when I am ready.”

“Maker, yes.”

She pushes him back against the mattress and lowers herself onto his cock. She is warm and wet and all at once. A bit tight as she clenches on him. Her hands press against his chest and she growls as she rides him. Nails bite in leaving red half-crescents behind.

Cullen reaches for her breasts, to touch, to hold, but she bats his hands away before taking one and guiding it to her clit. Maker, he feels so silly, being taught like this. But he remembers her body, muscle memory kicking in as he rubs her in quick circles. She squeezes him with her thighs and her sex and he knows he does well to please her.

He is close already, but he must hold back. Andraste, she is too much. Her hair is wild and her skin slick with sweat as her toes curl and she comes and comes around his cock. Her feet curl against his legs.

Sabina proclaims not to believe in the Maker or Old Gods or any other ‘children’s story’, but perhaps only because she cannot see herself as he sees her.

“Mmm,” she is stated but still alert. She presses a finger to his lips, past his lips. He licks at it. Then another finger. She whispers “more.”

He coats them thoroughly with his saliva before biting just at the pad of her index finger. Even in the darkness he can see her smile. Their eyes stay locked as she pushes her hand between his legs. He splays for her. This is something he has thought of since her first mention of it. Something other than what he would have considered before her.

At first it is hard to relax, but she is gentle. Her other hand supports her weight and he can see her muscles strain. She breaches him and the friction is different, but not unpleasant. She moves, but not far. This is not meant for stimulation. He had not considered the fact of it before. It is about possession. That she can; that she has had him as no one before has. The realization is something more than the act of it.

“Good boy. Good Cullen,” she growls his name.

He wants her to stay, to hold his gaze and talk to him. But he could not come, not just like this. Even though this is incredibly arousing. Again she curls her frame between his legs and sucks. Prods him gently.

His stomach is incredibly tight in the cycle of serving and being served. She is making him mad like this. He wants those words. He wants them so terribly he would rip them from her throat if it would work.

“Sabina, I’m going to….ah.”

With lightning reflexes she pulls out of him and lets his cock fall from her mouth. He could scream but just as quickly she guides him into her and rides him out until he releases inside of her. Without touching herself she comes and is more vocal than he has seen her before. The long line of her neck with her head thrown back, hair down her shoulders. He cannot resist telling her again.

“I love you,” he resolves that he will not hide it, even if she does.

She does not smile. Does not answer. Rises and washes her hands with water from the pitcher. He’ll never know how she is so composed afterwards. Perhaps her lifetime of leaving. In the morning, he will be the one to leave.

It is plain enough she means to leave, but makes the mistake of coming to kiss him goodbye. Instead he pulls her back into bed, smells her hair, tells her again how he feels. Her hands clutch around his shoulders and he is thankful just for that.

“You do not drink lyrium,” he makes it as a statement, not a question.

“No.”

“Tell me, does Hawke sing?”

“They all do, the Templars. They’re so loud.”

He can feel a wetness against his chest. She cries, but without sound. It is something he may not tell anyone, he knows as much. Others knowing would destroy her and everything she has worked for.

“You should tell…”

“No, Cullen. Please, no.”

“We don’t even know what is causing it.”

“Which is why we tell no one.”

\--

They are losing forces, and quickly. The dragon overhead is relentless in its attacks. Picking and clawing as it sweeps over Adamant Fortress. But Cullen knows they must hold. If not, the Inquisitor will be lost. The Inquisitor and the Wardens and Thedas. They can hold, he is sure of it. They will succeed. But it will be at great cost.

The rising fires prick at the skin. The air around them is scorching. Cullen makes calculations in his mind, thinks where the Archdemon is likely to hit next. It is in pursuit of something, but the circles it travels in are so wide that more than just its prey is caught in its fury.

He knows whatever it pursues, the Inquisitor is there. It is his task that the Inquisition is successful. That she, they, win. Other options do not exist.

The Archdemon changes course and Cullen yells at his forces to take cover. But it does not strike, it flies over them, away from the field of battle. His troops are still at odds with the Warden mages, but something has changed. He should be relieved, but the implications are terrible.

One of his scouts appears minutes later, reporting that the Inquisitor and her party are gone. Hawke and Warden Alistair as well. There was a collapse and reports of a green rift. That is all they know for certain. It is not enough information to act on. Cullen grits his teeth and chooses wisely.

“Find me Harding or Sera, preferably the first.” The first he trusts without question. The second carries more risk, but she is loyal to the Inquisitor. Whether she would take orders from him is a different matter. He gives the scout likely locations for them both given deployment orders.

He cannot breathe. Minutes drag on. He gives commands. He leads as he should and does not think of her beyond waiting for the two archers.

Both Harding and Sera appear within seconds of each other. Caked in grime and sweat, they have been close to the fires. They will go closer yet.

“I need information about what happened to the Inquisitor. And I need it from you. I need what is not being said openly. I need.” He needed certainty. And that he could not have.

“We will find it,” Harding assures and disappears in a puff of smoke.

Sera vanishes next, although she can’t keep silent, “Aw tits.”

It is all he can do. So he represses. Works. Waits.


	11. Promises from the Mouths of Demons are Better than Threats from Your Other Self

Hawke feels the push of the Fade against her skin. It is sticky and sour, like being in the mouth of a beast. All around her it pulsates and breathes. Being here in the flesh makes her bones rattle. It makes her stomach churn and her heart burn. She cocks her hip and tells the Inquisitor she's fucked them all, but at least they're not dead. When Alistair says they're lucky, she wants to strangle him. This is the fault of the Wardens, every last one of them. To be so stupid, and she knows stupid.

There are Spirits in their ears. Hawke can see them all. Different ones for different flavors of temptation. Pride lumbers in Trevelyan’s shadow. Sturdy and spiked, a threatening thing indeed. She cuts an imposing figure, but the spirit dwarfs her. Admirably she holds it off.

Desire curls around the mage, casting a slight pallor over his skin. It caresses and coos. But Pavus is adept, he sees his fiend often, it would appear. Perhaps not like this, but he knows how to keep it at bay.

She hangs back, away from the others. It makes sense, distance and space is to her advantage. Without another instrument, she plucks her bowstring. She hums to herself. She plays with her hair when it falls into her eyes. Justice falls into step beside her as they wind their way through the Fade.

"Can the others see you?" It is barely a whisper. If her body were not here, she would not speak it aloud at all, but the rules of the Fade that have held for a thousand years crumble all around them. Perhaps like this Justice cannot read her as he does when she dreams.

"Only the mage. But he does not want the others to know. He will keep this secret."

"Know what?" There is a smile on her lips, she can already guess the answer. Justice brushes against her. It is different than the times in dream. Infinitely more visceral as it cups her breasts through her armor, wraps itself around her form, passes through her body and literally holds inside her. It moves her. She doesn't mean to gasp, afraid it will draw attention, but she does. For her, it always keeps Anders' form, aware how much she desires it.

"That he is known."

The little atrocities the Nightmare conjures are easily defeated. So tiny that she actually takes glee in hitting them dead-on, poaching kills from Varric like they were back in Kirkwall and not heading into the endless void. Killing like this is a pleasure. Her only care would be to return to Anders, but with Justice beside her, she does not worry as much for her own safety. Just as Anders is Justice, Justice is now Anders, and he/it approves of her, consumes her. They feed.

She does not question "Divine Justinia" because Justice tells her that the Spirit is kind, wants to help. Perhaps it truly is the last remnants of the woman who gave her much more precious life for Trevelyan. They all should know what a waste that was. Trevelyan is just like Hawke, nothing special. Justice whispers she is very special, brushes her neck, says Anders wants her desperately. She should come home soon. He aches for her, but Justice will keep her safe.

Trevelyan is agitated. She always is. Too concerned with the correct outcome and not the one that will prevent them from being decimated. Thinks too much, and thinks she is always right. That she knows better than everyone else. She doesn’t, she simply doesn’t.

"And Warden Alistair," the Nightmare speaks, loud and clear and inside the marrow of their bones. It can read them all for their secrets, but only their unpleasant ones. "You failed as a recruit, you failed to reach for your destiny and become King, you failed to slay the Archdemon, you failed to protect your beloved. You failed to even tell him. You have failed." It draws out the last word with particular bile.

Hawke knows her turn is coming. Knows all the things it may say to make her afraid. She has many many fears. Her melodies both keep them vivid and drown them out. Depends on which song.

Trevelyan slices through the terrors with her blades, dances beautifully. Little by little she is covered in the green gunk of their intestines. The headstrong, haughty Bann's daughter covered in muck and grime. Suits her well. Her dance lessons used for destruction.

"Dorian Pavus, I took you at first for your father..."

Hawke does not care for the secrets of others. Her vision narrows to skittering points of movement into which she may sink her arrows. Sensation reduces to Justice carrying her, keeping her from spiraling out of control. She hates it here. The longer they remain the clearer she feels it. She hates it hates it wants to leave. Needs to pretend it's fine. But it's so fucking unfair, this life and death she did not want. All she wanted after Ostagar was to escape certain death by Blight. Her lot in life has been significantly worse.

"And Hawke. Nothing you did ever mattered. Everything you love, destroyed by your incompetence. Everyone you love, suffers, has suffered, will suffer. Anders, he will die like the rest of them. Champion."

She bites her tongue and renders a comeback, "As if you are the first to tell me that. Like I would be swayed by a demon."

"You already have been," it mocks.

Ahead, Trevelyan tenses, puts her hand to her temple. Her tells are more distinct now than when she and Hawke first met. Little by little the Fade eats at her composure, or it is something else. Something distresses her.

"Inquisitor, this task is far too much for a simple, pampered noble. Go home to the Marches and bury your head in the sand of the Storm Coast. Bury yourself in lovers you do not love. That is what you desire, is it not? This world will come apart at the seams and be restitched no matter your effort."

The Nightmare speaks and Trevelyan slashes. She uses more energy in her dance of blades than she needs to. Her exhaustion clouds her judgement. The last terror falls and she collapses, holds her face in her hands and tries to breathe. Hawke would pity her, if she were a good woman, or if Hawke were a better person as well.

Hawke climbs the outcroppings of solidified essence to gain higher ground. It cuts against the flesh of her palms. It keeps her at a distance from the rest of the party but enhances her view of the Inquisitor.

The Seeker rushes to her side, puts her hand on her back and soothes in slow circles. They cannot do this without Trevelyan's body. The Anchor on her hand is more important than anything else. She vomits on the floor of the Fade and the mage looks away. He is no healer, that much was clear upon first meeting. Trevelyan wipes her mouth with her hand and stands. She is ready now, her eyes dark and hard.

They press on. She bickers with Alistair over the guilt of the Wardens. With the distance between them they must shout. She does not care if the Nightmare hears them. It can hear them even when they are silent. Trevelyan holds her head but does not stop them.

"You are too loud for her," Justice informs.

"Good." She wants results. But that doesn't mean she must like the Inquisitor, grovel at her feet as the others do. Even Varric. He has stumbled across a better story than her. Perhaps one where he does not have to fashion a new hero out of the tattered remains of reality. Years ago, she was glad, the service he had done for her. Watching him dote on Trevelyan has soured her opinion.

The Divine is beautiful as she is taken by the Nightmare. White hot and shimmering. The demon wretches and howls but is not defeated. They must fight it. Pentaghast and Alistair step forward, Trevelyan on their heels. She lands the first blow, her arrow streaking past them and piercing the demon’s hide. Laughter bubbles from her chest before she disappears. She catches Trevelyan’s scowl before she stealths away as well.

“You’re beautiful like this, ruthless. The bane of Templars.” Justice speaks to her, though it is not meant as seduction, but as encouragement.

Trevelyan dips in and out of sight, always behind something. Hawke is always in front, but so far in front as to be safe. She pins things down while Trevelyan hides. She strikes fiercely while the other waits for her opportunity.

Pentaghast falls, swarmed by terrors while the mage sprinkles fire around her. Since she hopes to escape this, she tosses a potion from her own hip down to Pavus. Once the terrors sizzle, he helps the Seeker to his feet. It is not an act of kindness, on Hawke’s part, but self-preservation.

The Nightmare collapses in a tangle of screeches. It is like nothing she has ever heard. She never wishes to hear it again. So loud and terrifying she drops her bow and covers her ears. Everyone else is running. Desperately, they make it to the tear in the Fade; Pentaghast, Varric, and Pavus. They cannot hear it. They cannot hear it dying, crying.

Trevelyan screams through the noise. It was covered up before but Hawke can hear her now. Both a scream and a whimper, clawing at her face. Alistair is beside her, trying to pull her up and towards the exit. No one comes for Hawke. Varric is already through the rift.

No one comes for Hawke, but Justice tells her to be brave, to make her feet work. Were he Anders, he would carry her. But he has no form here, not bound as he is with Anders, and she does. She must make her feet work. He speaks to her so there is something in her mind other than screaming. Bow in hand, she crawls. This will not defeat her.

“Hawke!” Trevelyan calls for her before screaming again. The pain, the thing, it is inside them both. Clawing.

“I fucking hate you, Trevelyan!” She must get it out because she may never get another chance to tell her how she really feels. “I don’t even know you, and I hate you.”

The noise stops. Blissful silence, haunting and pure. Hawke finds her feet and rushes towards Alistair and Trevelyan. From her face, she knows the screaming has stopped for the Inquisitor as well. Now she merely looks confused.

“No,” Trevelyan mouths. “No! I refuse!”

Hawke doesn’t know what that means.

For a minute it appears they are to fight each other in the Fade now. Trevelyan pulls back her arm as if to punch Hawke swear in the jaw, but stops. The reason the screeching ceased is clear now. The Nightmare is not dead, it has risen, it is coming for them, and most of their party is already gone.

“I will hold it off, you two must go through the rift,” Alistair pushes the two women away before grasping his shield. He turns, ready to face the beast alone.

“No.” Trevelyan looks to Hawke, “Hawke stays. I need you, Alistair.”

Hawke’s temper is fast, faster than she can remember it being and she throws her full weight at Trevelyan, knocking her to the ground. The Inquisitor is heavier than her, stronger. There is no time for this fight and Alistair is already fending off the beast, it will make short work of him. He will never be able to kill it with a single blade. Because of her manic will to live, he will die.

So be it.

And then, Justice. “I will protect you, always, my love.” It starts as Justice, finishes as Anders.

“Fuck you, Trevelyan.” She pulls the blades from the Inquisitor’s back and scrambles away. Trevelyan does not follow, and she cannot look back to see if she makes it out of the Fade.

“Go, Alistair, you heard Trevelyan!” Why must it always be her who sacrifices? Why? Why.

The Nightmare knocks Alistair to the side and Hawke slides under its lumbering body. The floor of the Fade scratches against her back and she can feel it even through her armor. It pricks and pulls at her. With all her strength she thrusts both daggers upwards into the underside of the demon. It does not fall. She pulls back and stabs it again and again. They are slashing weapons, but she does not have time for that.

When the blades sink, so does the still half-alive carcass of the thing. It comes down faster than she can slide back out. Heavy and dark and atop her.

Justice covers her, erases its distinguishing features. Makes itself a perfect replica of Anders. Without the damn glowy bits. Though, to be honest, she doesn’t mind that part so much anymore. She knows he cannot stop the Nightmare from crushing her. But he kisses her, caresses her, says he will keep his promise and Anders’ both. She doesn’t know what that means.

He is like water flowing against her skin, sweet and wet. Though he has no form, she tries to curl her fingers in his robes, press her face against the pauldrons. This vision is not Anders as he is now, but when they were in Kirkwall. When she was cocky enough to think status would protect them. When she was brave enough to believe he would tell her everything.

She cannot breathe. It hurts to try. But she is not yet dead. Will be soon. Would have been more merciful to die quickly. But that would not be her lot in life, now would it? A clean death for the Champion of Kirkwall? Never. Not after everything else.

“Marian,” now she knows it is Anders, as much as he is separate from Justice. “I will fix this.”

She doesn’t know what that means.


	12. That Table Mentioned Earlier? Go Ahead and Smash Straight Through

She falls face first onto the fortress' stone floor and breaks her nose. The crack of it is sudden and sharp. It whites-out her vision. Behind her the rift zips closed and the process makes the Anchor ache worse than it has in months. She doesn't have the stamina for this. Out of the corner of her eye, Sera shimmers in from stealth, gasps, and disappears again. Strange girl.

Wiping the blood from her nose, she stands to address the attendant Wardens. She hasn't the energy for this, to be eloquent. Under normal circumstances, she can be measured, in control. Weave the right words for the proper occasion. Not now, she doesn’t have the energy for anyone or anything. But this is the reason she chose Alistair. Why she left Hawke to die. That, and to keep her illness concealed. She has no name for it. Only when she screamed, so did Hawke.

"Look what you have done, all of you!" She barks at the Wardens when she meant to command. "Your stupidity does disservice to the Order. You who were meant to protect the people of Thedas have threatened her to her very core. And for what?"

There is no answer from the crowd. None they could possibly give is satisfactory. Instead they look at the blood on their hands, the blood on the stones. Think on the multitude of their sins. This is not something she can forgive. But she needs the bodies. She needs troops and she knows it.

"Warden Alistair, as you and you alone have proven to be sound of mind during this insanity. I place you at the head of the remaining Wardens. You are all now in the service of the Inquisition."

She can feel the blood from her nose coming down her lips and chin in warm rivulets. Sincerely she hopes it reminds them how far she is willing to go. How many she will sacrifice in service to this cause.

"Walk with me, Alistair."

He falls into step beside her, without a look back to his comrades. After all, he has been betrayed by those meant to be his brothers and sisters. He alone questioned.

"Inquisitor," Varric rushes to catch up and is at her side opposite side. "Where is Hawke?"

"She is dead." There is nothing more to say on the matter.

Varric's feet stop. Nothing more passes between them. What he does now is his choice. It has always been his choice. He has that simple, sweet luxury. One she cannot afford. Maybe he goes back to Kirkwall and drinks himself stupid.

Her attention returns to Alistair. Unlike Varric, he is useful to her plans. "If I did not conscript you, Warden, what would be your next move?"

Alistair keeps his hands behind his back as he walks. He may believe they walk as equals, but they do not. The pair cut through the rubble of the fortress, fires only now being quenched. Bodies broken, bloodied, to be disposed of. They are nothing now, only meat. These are lessons that she has learned. They are easy to forget at Skyhold, but not here, not where she can smell them, taste it in the air.

"Weisshaupt, where the Warden leadership yet remains. I would go there, ask for reinforcements for the Inquisition, experienced mages to refill our ranks." These are the answers of a coward.

"No, you are all still vulnerable. I do not need more of you. What I have I will use, but no more. Not yet. Not until Corypheus is dealt with."

He nods, but she is already suspicious of his loyalty. The only guarantee she has is that he does not wish Thedas to fall.

"I need Warden Amell. He is the only mage I want. Do it."

She means to leave it at that. Operations of the remaining Warden forces will go to the Commander. Some may be assigned to the Spymaster depending on their skills. Alistair is a nominal figure-head at best. The Nightmare was cruel in its assessments, but not incorrect. Amell would be better.

"If it were just like that, snap my fingers and poof! There he is! I would have done that ages ago. He does not want to be found."

That is not an acceptable answer. "You will find him and bring him to Skyhold. I did not bring you here to run away to the Anderfells. Now, do it."

This time her tone is sufficiently clear that he is not to question her decision. And like so many others, he stops, he watches, he sees her move forward.

\--

A medic sets her nose while the Commander relays summary reports. It is all they have for now. Bits and pieces while bodies are pulled and some of them salvaged, mangled as they are. By morning they should know more. Scouts wade in and out of the tent, updating them as he continues.

The elf that patches her works with swift motions. She has tiny hands but they were strong enough to crack her nose again to set it straight. In a quiet voice of servitude, she says the Inquisitor must undress in order for her to finish. There is a hole in the side of her armor and the wound must be cleaned and bandaged. She is not sure if her feet will hold her, but she stands and strips to the waist while the Commander drones. When he is finished, he nods curtly and shows himself out. By that time, the medic is already pressing elfroot paste into the wound.

When it is done, she dismisses the medic and she flits out, thanking the Inquisitor as if it were her who did the elf a service. She sits at the edge of her cot and feels the bridge of her nose, now held in place with wood and cloth and sticky syrup. The forces are cautiously celebrating their victory. Is that even what occurred here? The Inquisitor is not so sure.

It could be weeks before Cullen reaches Skyhold, moving with his troops as he does. Admirable, to be so dedicated to them. To be seen as approachable but still firmly in command. He does well at his job.

Sabina cannot wait weeks. Not now. She searches through her things for something loose enough that will not irritate her bandages. Can’t very well march across the camp shirtless. Well, she could, but that’s a lot of work for Leliana. Finding nothing suitable, she resigns herself to a fitted tunic.

No one approaches her as she crosses camp. Most are already in bed but even for those who remain by the fires, there is nothing for them to say to her. She is not approachable, and that has been by design. Her earlier rage has no doubt reached the ears of most, and they seem to give her an exceptionally wide berth.

“Commander?” She waits for his reply.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen opens the flap to his tent and she enters.

He has already stripped of his armor and dressed for bed. His lamp is lit and an open book on his cot. Though one would not expect it, he reads voraciously. Mostly dull subjects like war strategy, but his knowledge is valuable. And he has yet to steer them wrong.

“Cullen,” she does not know where to go from here. Only she must move forward, there is nothing for her in going back.

“Sabina,” he cups her cheek in his hand but does nothing more than wait.

“They will talk, but they already do,” she moves his hand from her face. Holds his wrist between her fingers and stares at his upturned palm.

They move together to arrange in the cot meant for one. And even that anticipated one would be smaller than either of them. Almost better to sleep on the ground. Cullen pulls the coarse blanket over them both but leaves the lamp lit.

It takes a moment to settle against one another, careful of her nose and injured side. His arm slots under her neck and hers thrown over his waist at first. Then she moves it to his hair. She grips him just at the nape of his neck. His hair is getting long. Now that she thinks on it, she has not cut her hair since the Conclave.

“Hawke is dead,” she speaks against the fabric of his nightshirt. His free hand settles in the small of her back and presses her towards him.

“I know.”

In this she must trust him. If she continues to trust no one but herself she will go mad. And on this topic, she must speak to him as a friend, not as an adviser. She is certain he knows the difference, even if this compartmentalization is not his choice. “I had to decide. Someone had to stay.”

“Why?”

“To hold off the demon. And I judged Alistair the more valuable,” a half truth. She resolves to try again. “There is something else.”

For long minutes they do nothing but breathe. She must do so through her mouth.

“Whatever is, was, in Hawke, I think it’s in me too,” her voice is so low she would be unsure he hears her, except for the way he tenses, pulls her closer.

“Sabina, you must tell someone. Dagna. She would be the best option.” He is entirely too reasonable, but his voice is laced with fear. That fear panics her as well.

“Cullen, in the Fade it was so loud. It was inside my head and so, so loud. And now everything is quiet again. Only Hawke and I could hear it.”

Of red lyrium he says nothing. Instead he presses kisses to her forehead. One right after the other in a dull bleed of affection. She does not tell him to cease. She is too tired.

“And what if I am corrupt?”

“Maker guide me, I will still love you.”

That brings her more comfort than she expects.

\--

She returns to Skyhold. She does not tell Dagna anything of her suspicions, but submits to the tests the exuberant woman wishes to perform. That she walked in the Fade puts stars in the dwarf’s eyes. She chatters on and on at an alarming rate as she takes samples of skin and hair and blood. When she hears Varric was there too her eyes grow impossibly wider. A dwarf in the Fade, Ancestors preserve. The things she could learn. But Varric did not travel with her from Adamant. Dagna chides her and asks if any of the elves went, or maybe Bull? Sabina has to disappoint her. But there is a wicked smile on Dagna’s lips when she considers taking samples from Dorian.

If Coryphaeus doesn’t destroy them all, Dagna just might.

\--

Varric does return, eventually. Says he had business to which he had to attend, letters to write, to Hawke’s sister. He also says that Hawke was a good woman in a set of bad circumstances. None of them would have done any better. Sabina doesn’t believe that. She figures she’s in a better position than him to make that judgement.

\--

She is making preparations for the Empress’ Ball with Josephine when she hears word of the Commander’s return. Josephine smiles and Sabina wishes she wouldn’t. That everyone wouldn’t be so interested in the little structures she builds with Cullen. Yes, she has missed him. Misses him still because he is only at Skyhold and they have yet to see each other.

Josephine tells her she can go, this can wait. But it’s not right. It shouldn’t wait.

But there is a knock at Josephine’s door. Predictably, Cullen is on the other side, an assistant just behind him. He has finalized causality information and names for Josephine to locate next of kin for condolences. His assistant stays behind to help decipher handwriting. This, at the very least, is a more pressing matter than the Ball. She excuses herself and leaves with Cullen.

Her quarters are closer, but they feel somehow foreign. When he is here, he stands or sits by her desk, provides information, advice. But she cannot wait so she takes him to her quarters, lets him push her back against the hastily closed door and capture her lips. Only a few days ago the splint came off her nose, but he seems mindful to not disturb it. Her nose looks different than it did before. It’s all she can see in the mirror.

“Sabina,” his breath is hot against the shell of her ear and his hands are already under the hem of her tunic. Rapidly he pulls apart the buttons and the thread comes loose from one. He has not been so sure of himself before. The way he attacks her, paws at her, devours her.

And for what it’s worth, she fights back, biting his lip until he hisses, unbuttoning his trousers. She can already feel him hard between her legs.

“Too long,” he growls.

She can only laugh. Then he laughs too. He laughs and she runs her hand along his stubble. His hair has been cut back down to its shorter length, suits him better.

“Tell me,” his eyes are open, honest. “Did you miss this too?”

That strikes her as a painful question. The thing she has not said, that she’s not sure she can say, causes him so much distress. But it is a lie she cannot tell. That, of all things, would make her cruel. Crueler than she needs to be.

“But you must tell me something, Cullen.” She runs her finger along his lip, dipping it just inside.

“I would tell you anything.”

“What do you mean, when you say you love me?”

He looks at her as if it is an odd question. Perhaps it is. It certainly isn’t one she has ever asked before, or one to which she expects a suitable answer. None of the answers she has ever heard have been suitable.

“You make me want to do things that I know are impossible. I want to protect you from harm. I want to keep you close,” his face flushes but he continues to speak. He does not stutter, only chooses his words wisely. They have come so far, and he is the one comfortable enough to say these things, as she is the one comfortable enough to take him to bed. “I want to make you heavy with my child. I want to wed you. Most of all, I want you to love me back. I know these are impossible things. Every last one of them. But what it means, when I say I love you, is despite these impossibilities, I will be yours. Because that alone is greater than my many impossible wants.”

The words still stick. She kisses at the corner of his mouth, breathes. It is not so difficult, is it? Far more has passed between them than this word. The only impossible thing she could ever want is his understanding that she cannot be a figurehead for him as the others require her to be. And that he has provided, at every turn. And if one day he no longer loves like this? She cannot know. But now what she must trust is that his love is not built on sugar-sweet tales that evaporate in their mouths.

“These are not all impossibilities,” She grips the front of his coat until her knuckles turn white. For this, she must hold his eyes, watch them change as the sun moves around them. “I love you.”


	13. Take your Breaths Slow and Steady Lest You Drown Above Water

Sabina's words are so lovely and so wanted that he cannot think to question them. He feels them inside his ribcage, hot, sweet, impossible. For a moment he forgets that her nose was recently broken and kisses her so thoroughly that he does not stop until she hisses from discomfort. But she is not angry. Just smiles at him softly and touches his hair when he pulls back.

She says it again, "I love you."

He holds her on the balls of her feet. Grabs her thighs and wraps her legs around his hips, pressing her back against the wall and holding her in place. Still that beautiful smile on her lips. Just the barest hint of her white teeth. Sun from the windows catches in her hair and makes it look like black fire. In its intensity it may as well be a dream.

"Sabina, Maker's breath, Sabina." Her body is scorching against his. She smells like the noblewoman she is, clean, expensive. More than he could ever dream to afford. But somehow he feels as if he has earned this. And she has been her setting her own price all along.

But that's all wrong too. That's just the sort of love Sabina hates. He is hers, and now, she is his. It needn't be more complicated than that.

"You have not been the only one waiting, Cullen. Let's go to bed."

He wants to carry her there, like this, tangled around him and her tongue in his mouth, lapping at his, devouring him. Their journey is not graceful, but it feels intimate, pressed together, chest to chest. He can feel every intake of breath she takes, the way her arms squeeze around his shoulders.

They have not made love during the day. Perhaps they have not made love at all. This has been their open secret. All of Skyhold knows, but they do not really know. They do not know what they have gone through to reach this point. Deposited on the bed with her legs splayed, Sabina looks particularly inviting, if still rough. He does not doubt she still holds him more than he has a grip on her.

He does not ask after the other impossibilities, because this one is enough to wreck him. She loves him. And he is not too late.

Her fingers, more dexterous than his, work at the fasteners on his coat, but she does not push it from his shoulders. Then she grips at his already unbuttoned trousers. He hisses as the waistband catches over the curve of his erection. She mutters low apologies and kisses his cheek. Like this she cannot remove them fully so she only pushes them out of the way.

Those fingers are around his cock though they are both still mostly dressed. She fully, him halfway. Her hand works him gently, keeping him hard but not pushing him further.

"There is something I want."

He can't imagine anything he would deny her.

"It is wholly inappropriate. Fetishistic," while she speaks she squeezes and strokes. He does not kill the groan in his throat. Lets her hear his desire for her. How pliable she has made him.

"Anything, love."

She smiles and releases his cock. He feels cold without her hands on him. Instead she rolls her clothed hips up to brush against him. Despite everything else uneven about them, their bodies certainly fit like this.

"Take off everything, then put the coat back on."

He growls against her neck. This is something she has wanted, certainly, or else she would not command him as she does. He has similar thoughts of her in her armor, flushed from battle, the Anchor still alight, he hair tied up. Thoughts of having her as the Inquisitor. Tearing off her breeches and licking her raw with the sweat of combat still on her skin. As if that would make their possession of each other complete.

At first he does not move, he merely watches as she unbuttons her tunic and opens it at the front. His mouth presses against the flesh of her sternum, just where her breast band begins. She pushes against his shoulder and tells him to get on with it, he's practically drooling and she's already wet from the thought of having him. When it pleases her, she is so vulgar.

That spurs him to undress. Their clothing and boots end up in a pile beside the bed. Sabina's unabashed nakedness never ceases to take his breath away. Even his few encounters in Kirkwall with women who fancied themselves confident cannot compare to the easy way she strips, spreads her legs, directs him.

His coat feels heavier on his shoulders than normal. It's rough, something he doesn't normally notice with his tunic on underneath. He goes to fasten it, but of course she wants it open. Her hands slide against his chest, around his back. Painted nails claw at him, scratch until he hisses.

"On your back, Commander."

His cock twitches in response. The title feels so filthy in his ears. But he also thinks if this means he may publicly claim her. That she won't hide any longer in the useless shadows that do little to conceal their affair.

The sheets are soft against his bare legs. The coat is rough against his back. Sabina's mouth is smooth and wet along his shaft. She only sucks him briefly, rolling his balls in her palm, teasing, taunting. Only a few dips before she pulls off with a wet plop.

"Touch me, while I ride you."

Her hips lower over him, sheath him fully before she begins moving. She guides his hands to her breasts, which he can cover almost completely with his palms. He rolls one dark nipple between the pads of his fingers until she gasps. One hand she presses against his shoulder, burying it in the fur. The other she puts at his mouth, slips two fingers past his lips. He now knows well enough to lick.

She still knows her angles better than he does. Though, Cullen suspects the gap between their knowledge is closing. He has been as attentive a student he could manage in the dark. With the light through the windows, he tries to memorize every gasp and twitch of her face. Any clue that might give her away. Tries to memorize every time she clamps around him and shudders.

With both of her hands in his coat, she braces herself and slams down onto him. She smashes her fuller lips against his just as she does with her sex against his groin. Makes his teeth hurt but he doesn't care. He cares that he loves this woman. Wholly. That she is his. His.

She only pulls back far enough to scrape her words against his jaw. "You are one of the most powerful men in Thedas, command the most powerful army she has assembled. And you are mine."

"Maker, yes."

He moves his hand from her breast down the plane of her stomach until it is between her legs. Making quick, hash circles against her clit with his fingers, he is determined to make her come. To make her fall apart messily rather than quietly whimper. To make her lose control.

He can hear the strain in her voice, that will to hold on. "I may use you as I see fit, as it brings me pleasure."

"Sabina," he's not certain he can cold back. She moves so swiftly, grips him so tightly. Purrs wondrous things into his ears.

"No one shall have you like this, but me."

And yes, yes it is true. He knows it and she does too. But the reverse is also true. It is the thought of that, the mutual nature of their desire, that makes him act. He grips her by the shoulder and flips her over. The shroud of his coat conceals her body. Her hands remain fisted in the ruff. With dark eyes blown wide in surprise, she does not fight him. Not at first. He pounds into her, gripping her hip with one hand, furiously trying to bring her off with the other.

"And you, you are undoubtedly the most powerful woman in Thedas. You could command anyone on the continent." He bites at her neck, where it may well be visible. If she cares, she does not say. But she gasps, breathy, aching. "And you come to me."

He wants to be careful with his next words. There is still uncertainty about how much has changed between them.

"You come for me."

"Yes," she hisses.

She feels impossibly tight around him. Spasming over and over through her low groan of satisfaction. But he continues pistoning into her, spreading her thighs and filling her until she comes again. This time with a higher pitched keen. That is more than he can bear. The Anchor glows sharply, only softly muffled by in her grip. Mostly it is bright and so, so close. Touches something inside him that is horrifyingly private.

Demon, clawing, at the surface, her. Just as soon the memory of it is gone.

He spills into her and pants through his orgasm.

He's sweaty, and convinced his coat will smell of her for days. That is an idea he likes, no matter how vulgar.

This is normally when she rises, cleans herself, sometimes leaves. Once in a great while she stays. But it is not yet suppertime. And these are her quarters, not his. Even after he slides out of her, she remains still, breathing through her mouth, her lips just parted.

There is a tinge of guilt. Perhaps she did not like it. Making her come and ensuring her enjoyment are two separate matters. But when he rolls off her, settling by her side, she makes no movement to leave. Instead she presses her palm against his naked chest. He breathes deeply. Her hand stays.

“I submitted to Dagna’s tests. But I did not tell her all of my symptoms.”

He wraps one arm around her. Pulls her close. Her breath still comes through her mouth.

“I did not want her to assume the worst. But I have provided her with everything else. Blood, skin, hair. Only about the noise, I didn’t tell her that.”

Perhaps he should be grateful she said anything at all. “And what has she said?”

“A report came this morning. It’s on my desk. I haven’t read it.”

He presses a kiss to her hair. Of course she hasn’t. “Do you want me to get it?”

She nods against him. The coat is a bother at this point, but it is also the only thing providing him with a hint of modesty. He drops it in the pile with the rest of their clothes and retrieves the wrapped missive from her desk. He waits until he is back in bed with her before opening it.

“Summarize.”

It does feel different. More different than he expected, mixing their roles like this. But the report is likely to be a mixed thing as well. It is about her body, her mind, and its violations, but also about the future of the Inquisition. He told her if it was a corruption, he would still love her. Yet is he supposed to feel the same about her leading? If she is indeed vulnerable?

The report says nothing, only that the Inquisitor should visit the Undercroft as soon as possible. All results are in, except those tests run on Varric. His samples were taken later than the rest. Dagna is not even sure if they are viable, or different because he is a dwarf.

“Do you wish to go see her now? Do you wish for me to go with you?”

Her nails curl against him. The paint on them is cracked at the tips. Normally she is quite meticulous about their upkeep. The question bothers her. “Yes.”

He has no choice but to redress in the same clothes, but he leaves the coat on her bed. She pulls another dress he has never seen from one of the open crates. White. He cannot recall seeing her in white before. It’s stark against the darker tone of her skin.

To reach the Undercroft they must cross the grand hall. The hall is always full with visiting nobles and others of influence coming at Josephine’s invitation. The process annoys him to no end as he must occasionally met with those who consider themselves militarily minded. But it keeps the Inquisition’s coffers full.

He puts his hand at the small of her back before she opens the door to the hall. She does not tell him to stop. They cross like that. This simple thing makes him smile. Of course he is conflicted, wanting their privacy but also wishing to be acknowledged. Maybe he will curse the action later.

Dagna’s hands are bright yellow in some sticky substance that smells strongly like burnt sugar. She exclaims, “Inquisitor! Commander!” and rushes off to clean her hands.

“What have you found?” There is no place for them to sit, so they stand. Him just behind her.

“Here!” She has stacks of papers in her hands. Hair falls into her face and she blows air up to try and move it. It fails.

Sabina’s response is predictable, “Summarize.”

Dagna rattles on and on about chemical and alchemical properties of Fade substances she thinks she has found, mostly from Sabina’s hair. A little from Dorian’s blood. But none in hers or the Seeker’s blood. If she could synthesize more of it, combine it with mage blood, she might be onto something. Sabina points out they will definitely not be blood-letting mages. They are conscripts, not lab nugs. Dagna pouts and says she already has plenty of lab nugs. They aren’t as fun or as pretty as mages.

None of this is specific to Sabina. Cullen wonders if she should have said something about the singing, about her connection to Hawke, or if she was right to not say anything to the arcanist. Better to not muddy her experiments. Perhaps it is something else and he was wrong.

The Undercroft door swings open. One of Skyhold’s message runners. She has a slip of paper in her hand and rolls of parchment at her hips.

“Message for the Commander.” He hesitates. Then intends to send the messenger away. But Sabina turns to him and acknowledges he should take the message. He steps away, still considering how much Dagna should really know.

“Sir, there is a woman, just arrived. Looking for you. She says she is Bethany Hawke of the Waking Sea.”

He’s shocked, given his last letter to her. But the timing of it, she must know her sister has died. “Show her to Varric. He knows her quite well. I will see her once I am done here.”

The messenger takes her leave. He breathes and returns to Sabina. Dagna is still summarizing, but it is awfully detailed. She acknowledges his return. Clear enough that she has been waiting for him.

“Okay, Dagna. To the point. Is anything wrong with me?”

“Well, yeah, stuff’s wrong with all of us.”

“I mean specifically weird-wrong.”

“You have a glowing hand suffused with arcane energy the likes of which have not been seen in at least a thousand years. That’s weird-awesome. I can’t find anything weird-wrong.”

Cullen feels that if Sabina will say nothing on the subject, he must. But doing so would betray her trust. So instead he places his hand between her shoulder blades, feels her breathe. In, out, in. That she is alive through all this should be enough.

“Thank you, Arcanist.”

“No problem, Inquisitor. Oh, and you might want to cover the bruise on your neck. It’s super obvious.”

Sabina’s hand goes to her neck. Cullen feels a mixture between horror and pride.

Dagna’s hands are covered in the yellow goop not a moment later. Humming to herself she returns to her work.

Sabina’s arms are full of parchment she’ll never read. Her mouth is filled with lies of omission. There is nothing he can do about it. They stand together in the stairwell. He wants to kiss her, but her arms are crossed over her chest. Her back presses against the stone wall behind her. The fabric of the dress is so light he swears he can see her nipples through it.

“Sabina, the messenger said Hawke’s sister has come to Skyhold.”

Her eyes narrow. “Bethany?”

“Yes, she asked after me, but did not say what she wants. I told the messenger to take her to Varric.”

“And what about Anders?”

“There was no word other than Bethany.”

“I am more worried about the mage.”

“They are both mages.”

“One of them is possessed by a demon and decimated the Kirkwall Chantry. And I just led his wife to her death. He is the one I worry about appearing unexpectedly.” Dropping the stack of parchment to the ground, she unties her hair, letting it fall soft against her shoulders, before piling it back atop her head. “See what she wants. If she needs protection, we can offer it. Try to find out what has become of Anders.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

She sighs and uncrosses her arms. Places one hand on each of his. Kisses him so lightly it’s almost nothing. “Thank you, for coming.”

On the other side of the door they part ways. Sabina to her quarters and he to find Varric and Bethany. His coat is still in a heap on her floor. He will have to return for it later.


	14. I Can't Carry this Burden but Neither Can You. We Should Find a Wheelbarrow

Daylen spends his days toiling with herbs and minerals. Crushing priceless artifacts and gems. They stain his hands in unimagined colors. Sincerely he wishes that it were not this way, to ruin such items of value, but he has few concrete leads. So he reads and discusses with Ethlen and combines powders with liquids, records the results. It is unlike anything he has done before. Though Daylen is not fighting, or casting, the process exhausts him.

Ethlen lies to his Keeper about the Warden he shelters. Says that he is a mage, but not that he is human. Daylen knows the lies are for his sake, to keep him secluded from harm as long as possible. No one else knows, save Alistair. And he only knows the barest of details.

Alistair whose letters stopped, whose letters were dismissive at best and condescending at worst. Though Daylen can’t dream that was the intent, only Alistair was a bit inconsiderate with his words. Could he take it all back now, Daylen would have kept his lips sealed. Dear, sweet Alistair, the best friend he has ever had. Who laughs at his terrible excuse for humor and made him blush so brightly the first time they met under Duncan’s watch. Maker, where did Daylen’s fate take him but to this dank hovel while the world dies around him? He saw the sky come apart at the seams, just as everyone else did. Nothing ever made him feel so helpless. Nothing other than Alistair emptying the contents of his stomach onto his boots.

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, really. When Ethlen arrives at night and Alistair, lovely Alistair, is by his side. The elf looks sheepish, and rattles off some nonsense about how he is sure no one should know Daylen’s location. He hasn’t the slightest idea how Alistair found him. But this is fine. Of course Alistair would come. Daylen wants to believe this is what the Maker wants for him as well.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says. But his heart beats with the rhythm of ‘yes, yes, yes.’ This task has been so lonely. The Wardens need Alistair, but selfishly Daylen needs him as well.

Alistair plays with his gloves in his hands, then touches the hilt of his sheathed sword. “The Inquisitor wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Daylen wishes he had come of his own accord. But they are Wardens, after all, and bound to this duty he is trying so hard to sever. If not for himself, then for Alistair at least. For the generations of Wardens yet to come. For the Thedas that follows the current crisis. He has the long history in sight. But like this, this close, he really can only think of his friend.

“And what does the Inquisitor want?”

The distance between them is too narrow and too wide at the same time. Ethlen hangs back but does not leave. He busies himself at the heavy desk, going over samples that Daylen has separated and labeled. Vials of colorful things, beautiful really in their complexity. He still doesn’t understand them well enough.

“You. She didn’t say more than that. Only that you were the only mage she wanted.” Alistair takes a step towards him. It is enough and Daylen hugs him like the old, dear friend he is. As always, Alistair kisses him in a friendly sort of way just to the corner of his eye, there are wrinkles there now, and Daylen pats him on the back in response. At least they still have this.

They pull back and it is different. Because Alistair has a blush to his cheeks that was never there before. And he clears his throat, goes back to fidgeting with his gloves and gives a sly smile.

“Ethlen, I know it’s a terrible bother, but…”

Ethlen perks up at his name, mumbles out an ‘of course,’ and something about returning tomorrow. The door barely makes a noise on his way out. Perhaps Daylen owes him some sort of allegiance. No, he certainly does, for his skill and the work he has contributed to a cause that is not his own, nor one that particularly serves his people. But he never led Ethlen down the wrong path, offered anything other than friendship, he is sure of it.

“I’m sorry you came all this way, Alistair.” He offers his friend a chair and a warm bottle of red wine. He has been drinking it straight out of the bottle since nightfall, but he is still clear-headed. It’s only for a bit of relaxation. And to drown out the Calling still in his ears but false all the same.

“Yeah well, either I’m taking you with me or I’m staying here.” He takes a long swig from the bottle, wipes his hand across his mouth. “I’m pretty sure the Inquisitor will have me strung up as an example if I don’t follow her instructions.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about her. And I can’t. We need this cure. It’s getting stronger.”

Alistair tilts his head to one side and looks at Daylen very studiously. “I haven’t heard it since Adamant.”

“Adamant? What happened at Adamant?” Daylen takes the bottle from Alistair but does not drink. Instead he holds very still and waits.

“Maker, of course you don’t know. The Inquisition took the Fortress, conscripted the remaining warriors and archers. We lost all the mages. Preserve you were not there. Your cousin, she...died. Whatever hold Corypheus had over us was broken. The blood magic or whatever. I haven’t heard the Calling for weeks.” Alistair’s eyes go wide with realization. “Yours isn’t false…”

“Maker,” Daylen buries his head in his hands, trying to think clearly, beyond his march to certain death. It’s very hard to block out.

And his cousin, the very popular one he never meet, already gone. Alistair only ever said that the two of them had very little in common other than their eyes. That was years ago, when the two met in passing on the burning streets of Kirkwall. It had made his heart thump in his chest because it meant he thought about Daylen’s eyes, but also looked at hers though they met for no more than twenty minutes in the middle of a crisis.

“It’s why it happened to you before me and the others. They weren’t the same.”

Daylen exchanges the bottle of wine for a flask of lyrium. He doesn’t need it, but maybe he does because it quiets the dreams. “It’s too early. It’s only been ten years.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Shit.”

He sits at his desk and conjures a small bolt in his hands. A bit of lightning that is not a mere flash but a steady pulse. In the Circle he learned magic was not for amusement or personal gain. To serve man, not to rule over him. Daylen is a good Andrastian. He has been since he was only a boy at his mother's skirts and not yet labeled a mage-child. But this trifle, a storm in his palm, he allows himself.

"I have to find the cure. It will be my last gift to the Order." The electricity passes from his left to his right.

Alistair's eyes follow the path of the spell then break away, seeking Daylen's instead. It's contact Daylen can only just hold, as Alistair's eyes shift color with the moving light. More troubling is the thought of how little progress he has actually made. When he first parted from Alistair it seemed so close, as if he could reach out and catch the cure. But his slow, plodding steps have brought him no closer.

"Better I die working on this, than fighting in the Deep Roads, I think. A squishy mage by myself? I wouldn't last very long."

"Daylen," Alistair's voice is just above a whisper. It's a broken thing. Then be brightens. "The Inquisition has resources, many more than here. They can help, get you all the supplies you need. The Wardens are under their command. They cannot stop you."

"We do not know why the Inquisitor wants me. You said so yourself. You said she does not take kindly to being crossed."

"Sod it, do you know she has Dagna?"

That interests Daylen more than anything else. "Indeed?"

"Yes, your cousin said she met her at Skyhold, working for the Inquisitor. She's into this sort of experiment-y research stuff, right?"

Daylen nods and pushes his hair away from his eyes. It has grown too long in his seclusion. "I wrote to her for ideas before I left."

"You're the Hero of Ferelden, Daylen, you can't possibly be afraid of the Inquisitor."

He laughs in response because it seems silly put like that. But he is a man now perhaps without an Order to back him, and she leads a powerful entity the likes of which he would not have imagined prior. Fighting Darkspawn is an ancient task, hers seems somewhat less well-charted even as it calls upon history. It is not a predictable thing. "Maybe. I'll think about it."

"Well think quick, because like I said, I'm not leaving without you and this shack is pretty cramped. Though we've had worse."

Daylen finishes off half the lyrium flash before offering it to Alistair. Force of habit really.

Alistair waves him off, "had my dose this morning. Haven't been using abilities today."

The rest he drinks himself. It'll ease his dreams, which are certain to be harsh and full of green-tinged pain.

"There's only the one bed. Will you be uncomfortable...because," he searches for the words, "now that you know?"

"Like we haven't slept together a hundred times before." Alistair catches himself, "I mean, Maker. You know what I mean. But you, was it all that time? You were thinking? About me?"

Daylen thinks back on it. To those early days of the Blight when he and Alistair had no one but each other to call upon. When they tried to figure out what being a Warden meant without a roadmap and ten-thousand Darkspawn ahead of them that didn't give a damn that they were lost. He was so terrified most of the time, having last seen the world outside the Circle when he was four. Where his biggest fear had been abuse by the Templars and not the terror he felt sleeping next to such a handsome one with broad hands and sweet words he didn't even know were such.

"Not every night, but enough."

Alistair rolls the now empty wine bottle between his ungloved hands. It's a habit he's always had. Daylen noticed it right away, both his hands and the habits.

"I always thought you were like me. We were like each other. Not really interested." He laughs more to himself than anything. He doesn't look at Daylen anymore. "You know, I haven't been with a woman since that damn ritual. Haven't thought about it in a long time. At the time I was so mad at you, foisting that off onto me."

"It wasn't fair to either of us, but it worked. We lived."

"Yeah," Alistair finally looks up and catches Daylen's eyes. "We lived."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." And he is. He should have taken responsibility at the time. They don't even know what became of the child.

"It's nothing, really." It is though. "But yeah, wait, you changed the subject!"

"Did I?"

"Yes!" Alistair is quite agitated and Daylen doesn't know where this is heading, "I was trying to say. I thought we were alike, not interested in love or sex or whatever. But after you said...that....I wondered maybe we are still the same, just not like I thought."

"Alistair," he doesn't know what direction to take this conversation. It's a bit much and a bit too little at the same time. "I haven't been celibate for ten years."

"What? How did I not notice?"

"Well," it's such an embarrassing admission, "I was paying for it mostly." Daylen knows his ears must be red.

"What? How? Why?"

"Maker, it's not as if I'm often recognized or anything. It just seemed easier."

They’re both laughing, nervous at the ridiculousness of this all. As embarrassed at thirty given the topic as they would have been at twenty.

"Well, you really should stop that at once."

Daylen rolls his eyes, "You can't just say that."

"Sure I can." Alistair stands and reaches for Daylen's hand. Grabs it and pulls him up so they're chest to chest, Daylen just a hair taller but not as broad. He feels like he should know, but he's also learned he's not the best at making predictions.

Alistair's hand is shaking around his. "Maker, I'm going to be rubbish at this," he blurts out before pressing his lips to the mage's.

And he is, he's rubbish at it. But Daylen doesn't even care because he might be too.


	15. Put the Pretty Things in Your Mouth and Bite Until They Break

Sabina drinks her wine slowly, watches, appraises, waits. Josephine and Leliana both underestimate her in such a setting. Accustomed to the Game as they are, they do not think the Inquisitor suited for it. But that is fine, she knows better. Knows herself better than anyone who judges her. Vivienne play-acts as if she underestimates her, but that is only a ruse. The two have been dancing around each other for months. Sabina likes the steps. Likes the idea that Vivienne, so accomplished in politics, finds her worth the effort. The Enchanter did scoff that Sabina prefers white wine to red. It isn’t the style.

The lilac dress she wears isn’t in style either. At least it isn’t for Orlais, too much drape and not enough structure. But that is by design as well. She looks different, and they can tell by her maskless face, her hair down in soft curls across her bare shoulders. But the hem isn’t right, the skirt isn’t full enough, it has delicate pleats but none of the heavy wire and corseting and petticoats.

She wears her mother’s necklace. It’s old, and certainly out of style, the bulky pendant. But it came from Rivain with her grandmother, who was considered quite beautiful and with such a skilled tongue as to be sent to the Marches as a diplomat. Talked and married her daughter into the nobility with unexpected grace. Sabina hopes to be as unexpected here at Halamshiral. The necklace is a subtle dig against the Maker and the Chantry, though the guests here are too ignorant to know this. They will only think it a quaint, if somewhat ugly bauble. But its weight against her sternum is enough to bring her comfort. She is not Orlesian, and she would never hope to be. But she will outplay them at their own Game. She will hold their Empress in her grasp. She is not Andrastian, but the masses still call her the Herald.

From what half-secrets she hears spoken in low tones, she charts a course through the Palace. In and out of her gown and her armor. Pinches of deception from her pouch, tucked between her breasts rather than at her hip, as she enters rooms she should not. A dagger in her boot and another strapped to her side. The steel warms against her flesh.

Cullen is certainly popular, but useless at information gathering. A crowd of young, available nobles nips at his heels and he is certainly overwhelmed. She can’t fault them. Cruelly, she does not step in to rescue him, and instead speaks to Leliana in hushed voices. The Spymaster curates the winding information spilling from the mouths of Cullen’s admirers.

Varric is a little drunk but it’s not an issue. He can still shoot straight enough and the Orlesians are beyond charmed by him as he patterns stories. She has chosen wisely in the companions she has brought. Though a touch of her wants Sera here to keep everyone on their toes.

Cassandra could not be forced into a gown, but the suit she wears makes her just as lovely as could be expected. Sabina asks the Seeker if she is in the market for a lover. They lean against the railing to better watch the dancers move in patterns of light and shade. Cassandra laughs briefly. Despite what the storybooks say, a grand ball is no place to find love.

She asks Cassandra to dance. They are perhaps the two women in the room least expected to excel at such trifles, but they do. Too easily the world forgets that they were girls of privilege before they were women of battle. That's fine. It is to their advantage.

When Cassandra departs, Grand Duchess Florianne offers her hand. Sabina reverses the position of her arms, leading instead of following, transitioning between roles with ease. When she was young, the Duchess must have been quite beautiful. Even now there is a glow about her, a refinement. She offers her help in entrapping her brother. In return, Sabina offers nothing.

The Anchor is uneasy and so is her stomach.

Cullen watches them, as he watched her dance with Cassandra. She watches as he is pulled away by a woman ten years his junior. Seeing the scowl on his face spurs the knot in her chest. It's a sensation she still must get used to. This odd thing, to care.

She doesn't have to lift her skirts to ascend the stairs, they simply float around her. Perhaps she should have worn something a touch more to fashion, she would have been warmer. Seeing Cullen still surrounded by his admirers makes her smile. He looks so very out of his element. It's sort of a joy to watch. His disinterest is palatable.

"Commander, walk with me."

The relief on his face is instant, the way his eyebrows perk and the hint of a smile. "Of course, Inquisitor."

She takes another glass of wine from an elven servant. Everything worth learning from this particular one she already knows, so she keeps walking. Cullen remains silent beside her, hands behind his back and at attention. The dark fabric of his high collared dress uniform cuts across his pale skin in a pleasant way. Makes his eyes and his hair look all the brighter.

"Enjoying yourself?" She suspects he's not.

"Maker, nothing could be further from the truth. I honestly don't know why you brought me at all."

They reach the balcony. The Palace gardens spread out before them in lush green waves. She wants to take off her boots and run through them barefoot. She wants Cassia to see this. Meeting Josephine’s sister has reminded her. Instead she sips her wine.

"You're very popular. You may not have realized, but Leliana has received some very good information from those eager to court you." She smiles and faces him. The shock on his face suits him. "Besides, there is another reason."

"And that is?" He's a bit annoyed with her games now. Perhaps he wishes she were just as inept at politics as he. Or at least has the courtesy to pretend she does not like this.

She puts her hand to his cheek. Kisses his parted lips, soft and sweet. He presses back lightly. Against her palm she feels traces of his stubble coming back in though he shaved just this morning. When he was finished shaving he watched her dress, set her curls, kohl her eyes. Just as soon, they are finished. His lips quirk up at on corner.

With her resolution to be more open with him, she speaks. "Something is odd about Duchess Florianne."

Instinctively his hand goes for his sword, but it is not there. "What?"

"I can hear something inside her. Or the Anchor can, I'm not sure."

"Coryphaeus?"

"Yes," she hold onto his sleeve, brings her face close to his, makes it appear as nothing more than a private moment between two lovers. Spies from all sides watch them. Of this she is certain. "I must follow her lead, see where it goes. Now kiss me again, we have an audience."

\--

Sabina's armor is caked with grime from the Fade demons, sticky and green. She's too hopped up on battle and victory to give notice. Where before she was presentable, if charmingly rustic, now she is a mess of armor and curls and knives. The Anchor still glows, pulsates, reminds the guests that this quaint, petty noble is their path to salvation. Like a litany she rattles off the Duchess' crimes. With a hiss at the end she pronounces her guilty. There is no trial, only the Inquisition. She can still taste blood in her mouth.

The Game is already dramatic, so in return Sabina ups the stakes. Just a touch. The Duchess feigns innocence and Sabina casts her knife through her shoulder. It catches just at her clavicle, a thin line of blood seeping from the wound as she sinks to the ground. It hurts far more than the damage actually inflicted. Sabina trusts her aim well enough, she has not hit anything vital. The Empress' agents drag the Duchess away, though she is now in custody of the Inquisition.

Applause comes from the crowd. They have been on Sabina's side for quite some time. The quaint Marcher who knew their rules better than anyone expected. Now Celene is at her disposal. An empire is at her disposal.

Morrigan nods to her across the room. Her eyes remind Sabina of a hawk. The apostate is no one's prey. That much is clear. Morrigan is more than what she seems, and Sabina suspects she sees more than what happens before her eyes.

She is exhausted and keyed up in the same breath.

“Commander, walk with me.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

The smell of the Fade is so intense yet. Or it may be coming from the Anchor. It does nothing spectacular, but it does not quiet either. Simply pulses on her left hand. She keeps it at her side as if nothing is the matter, as if this is normal. But it wants to tear something open.

The terms of Celene’s support will have to be negotiated. But for the moment that is left to diplomats. For now she needs something else to take down this edge, to pull her back from the cliff.

Only a week ago she took a party to the Storm Coast to hunt Red Templars. Looked out onto the Waking Sea and thought of home. She considered what it would take to return. If she was even a woman that could return. Then she had her doubts, now she is certain she cannot. At the time she had been so angry at Cullen for no particular reason other than his very presence in the fabric of her life. That he was unacceptable in so many ways but she had grown so fond of him. She loves him and sometimes she still hates that. Not now, though.

He is clean pressed with suitors still gazing though he has no title outside the Inquisition and no wealth anywhere. She is a sweaty, sticky mess that provided the evening’s entertainment.

She leads him to the royal wing. The rooms were suspiciously occupied for an abandoned part of the Palace, but she suspects they are empty now. He furrows his brow as she pulls him past the now unlocked door. Still a stickler for rules. She doesn’t want to change that about him. Part of the charm, the way he protests.

The ornate door clicks closed behind them. She can’t wait any longer to put her hands in his hair and pull until their lips meet. His hands rest at her waist against the leather of her armor. On her belt are still the tools of her art. She’ll deceive him again, in other, more interesting ways.

“Sabina, we shouldn’t.”

She nips at his pink ear, “The wing is empty. I killed most everyone earlier.”

He recoils at that and in response she laughs.

“What do you think it is I do, Cullen? With knives and poison and skill? You do the same with orders and tactics. You used to do it with your hands.”

His hands are much larger than hers. Because his blade is heavier, larger than hers, there is a coarseness to his palms. She presses their hands together, spreading their fingers wide. The contrast is something she enjoys.

“It is cruel,” she continues. “But if I were to find no joy in it, I couldn’t continue.”

“Joy in killing?” He maybe does not understand as well as she thought.

“No, not killing, specifically. Succeeding where others would fail.”

His eyes stay wide. He lets her manipulate his hands between hers.

“Does this make you love me less?”

There is no hesitation. “No, nothing could.”

She smiles and drops his hand. At her pocket is her powder. Her supplies are low, just a few pinches left. She throws it to the ground and shimmers. Cullen narrows his eyes but does not leave.

“Sabina?”

“You can still see me, yes?” She shifts her weight from one foot to another, just enough to move the air around her. “Or has your time out of the field dulled your senses?”

He scoffs. “I was trained to work with rogues, not against them. But yes, I can see you, just barely.”

“Good, let’s test that.” Another shift and shimmer. “Catch me.”

She turns and runs, deliberately kicking up dust to give him enough to go on. Behind her she can hear an exasperated sigh. Perhaps he thinks her childish.

To move between rooms she must open and close doors. Always leaving clues for him to follow. A trail of crumbs. She wants to be caught. If she did not, she is certain he would never find her. She is that good. It is not necessary for her to look over her shoulder. Cullen’s footfall is evidence enough. She weaves through bedrooms, around statues, ducking in and around. Laughing when he seems to have lost her so he is back on the trail. She doesn’t want any of the rooms. She wants the garden.

And so, when Cullen is just within her reach, she does not side step. She waits until he feels her out. A hand first between her breasts. By memory he finds the back of her neck next. She is warm in his hands but still semi-invisible.

“I’ve never understood this.” He says in awe. “It always seemed like...magic.”

“But it’s only technology.”

The effect starts to fade and she uses her last dose to stay hidden. Dropping to her knees, she works the buckle to his slacks with efficiency.

“Sabina,” his voice is a warning growl. But he doesn’t stop her as she pulls his slacks over the curve of his ass and off his hips. “Sabina we’re in the open.”

She palms his erection in slow, steady strokes. “No one is here. No one will know. Stay quiet.”

He’s hot and slick in her mouth. Twitching at first as he hardens. He tastes clean, pure. There will always be a purity about him, even as she makes him her own. For all her blasphemies, claiming him as her own feels like the most immoral. The good Templar, now a mess for her.

His hands tangle in her hair, fallen loose from its tie while she ran through the chambers. She sucks him and listens for the groans of satisfaction. The ones that make her wet for him. This is no particular skill of hers. And she would not service him on her knees like this under other circumstances. But it feels wicked like this, in the Winter Palace, fresh from battle. And the noises he makes, so sweet in her ears, makes it worth it.

When she stands he makes a frustrated noise. He is close to completion but she teases. Presses her hand against him until he comes back from the edge. She strips down until she is naked before him, but still stealthed out of vision. He does not yet know.

She grasps his wrists and guides him to her body, over her breasts, down to her sex. Watches realization spread across his face in the low light of the moon. He rubs his fingers against her as she holds on to his shoulders. She kisses against his throat.

“I want you to fuck me like this,” she teases.

“I can’t see you.”

“You said you could, you liar.”

He takes the challenge for a second time, feeling out her thighs and hoisting her up against him. She wraps her arms around his neck as he carries her to the low stone bench amidst the garden’s cold-weather blooms. Her back scrapes against the rock and she hisses. It takes concentration to keep the stealth field intact.

Where before he was cautious, he lets go. Fumbling with his boots and slacks before pulling open his jacket. He pulls her to his chest so he can lay the jacket beneath her, protecting her skin from the texture of the bench. Trying to kiss her mouth he misses once, but not again. Finds her and bites at her lip. He is naked, visible. She may be concealed but is no less vulnerable. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that yet. In time he will.

His hands trail inside her thighs until he reaches her folds. He dips his mouth down to lick. Tasting her and moaning against her flesh. He slides a single finger inside her. It’s not enough, but the gentle intimacy of it is pleasant.

He covers her body with his. Shields her from the night sky that cannot see her in any case. Sabina watches where their bodies meet. His cock disappears inside her, crossing the stealth field.

In her ears, whispers from his mouth, _I love you you’re beautiful I love you stay with me please please Sabina_. He cannot see her, but still thinks her precious.

In Val Royeaux a street painter was selling his wares. On a canvas, he worked on his latest piece. The Lady Inquisitor. The girl in the painting, and she was a girl, fresh faced and without the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, looked nothing like Sabina. She was young, fair, and pretty. With delicate bones, straight hair, and blue eyes. The Eye of the Maker shone down on her benevolently, and she looked back with adoration. Sabina bought the painting, unfinished. She threw knives at it and later Dorian turned the rest to ash. That painting was who the world wishes she were. She hates the girl in the painting.

She is close, with his cock inside her, his fingers against her making delicious patterns. He is an attentive student. The stealth field drops. She catches his eyes with hers. They’re so bright even in the darkness. When he sees her he smiles, wide and open. He looks so happy to be here, though the entire premise would certainly strike him as insane if he were an outside observer. He’d be scandalized as an outside observer.

When she comes undone around him he continues pressing into her. Pressing against her. He kisses her lips and swallows her sighs of pleasure. He is not far behind, chasing her. Catching her. He spills into her and this time it is she who muffles his cries. This is too too good. An unbelievable thing to which she has grown accustomed. Part of her hopes the spies are still watching. Let them know.

They sit up on the bench, leaning against one another. She traces patterns along his bare thigh. Months ago, when this began, she could not have imagined her Commander sitting naked in the private gardens of the Winter Palace with such ease. They’ve changed each other, little by little. Perhaps it is not such a bad thing.

“I should shower, dress. I still need to meet with the Empress.”

He presses a kiss against the side of her head. Her hair is damp with sweat and must still have the sharp smell of the Fade. She should look presentable for whatever ceremony Celene has planned. Cullen plays with her pendant, holding it between his fingers. But he does not ask about it, so she says nothing on the matter. Maybe another time. If it becomes relevant. If he cares.

“Are you going to wear that dress?”

She nods and rests her head on his shoulder. “I have nothing else.”

He laughs, “Maker preserve me. I will want to have you again.”

She smiles against his naked shoulder.


	16. At the Crossroads of the Wanted and the Unexpected

Sabina wakes before he does. Her day is full of meetings with Orlesian nobility, mitigating disputes between Inquisition agents, and, most critically, Warden Amell’s impending arrival. Sitting at her vanity, she pins up her hair, colors her cheeks, generally makes herself into a glossier version of herself. He watches her at her work. Though he thinks her stunning either way, he knows well enough it is not about that. While he may be Ferelden, and she a Marcher, these diplomatic tactics were contrived by the Orlesians. So, she paints herself. It's her own style of mask. The public Inquisitor.

Her back is bare other than the strip covered by her breast band. That and the thin, dark cord that holds her pendant in place. Though she has freckles across her nose, he has never seen one anywhere else along her skin. The muscles in her shoulders and arms are more developed than most rogues. Not like a warrior, but like a dancer. They move under her skin as she reaches back to tuck loose strands of hair in place. It makes him wonder. He knows so little still about who she was before. Eldest child of the Bann of Ostwick, but that is a title, not an occupation. He knows she has had many lovers, but that does not define her. She hears the song of lyrium. But why?

She is silent while she works. Curls her eyelashes with tiny, heated metal bars, paints her lips just slightly. Makes him want to bite her just there, on the pouting bottom lip. The gloss is made of beeswax and a fine powder she mixes together on a flat plate. He's tasted it from her lips before.

“Are you simply going to stare at me all morning?” She doesn’t bother to face him, though she appears nearly finished.

“I was admiring the view.” He rests his head on his bent knees. This quiet, simple domesticity between them is still fresh. Sabina doesn’t appear to entirely hate it. But they have so little time together. Within the week she is leaving for the Emprise du Lion. They are only waiting for Scout Harding to report back. Sera has traveled ahead as well. Sabina still trusts her a great deal. Perhaps more than the fickle elf deserves.

She waves him off, “Perhaps then I will watch you shower.”

“Perhaps I would like that.” He smirks and grabs her hand when she stands before him, pulling her back into bed. Mindfully enough he makes sure to not ruin the work she has done to her hair and face.

Her hands rub along his bare arm. She trails them down until she’s playing with his hand, sticking her smaller fingers between his. “You should hurry. I left enough water, but it will grow cold.”

She is right, about the water but about other things too. About what her love would mean, and what it wouldn’t. Now that he has her, he cannot stop thinking about taking more than she has already offered. He wants to keep her here, away from harm. But that is impossible. She alone can close the rifts. He wants to wed her, make her his wife. But that is impossible. She is a noble and he holds no title outside the Inquisition. Instead, he feeds her more questions in hopes of a straight answer. Something to bring momentary comfort.

“This,” he takes her pendant between his thumb and forefinger. “You started wearing it just before we traveled to the Winter Palace. And you have not taken it off since.”

She wraps her own hand around his fingers, but he does not release. “No, I haven’t.”

“I don’t recognize the symbol.”

Her fingers uncurl and he examines it again. He turns it over to look at the back. The bauble provides no clues of its own.

“You wouldn’t, Chantry Boy,” she teases, “it’s Rivaini.”

“Any hints?” He presses it back against her chest. The carving is intricate but doesn’t appear to be immediately representational, precisely cut in the ivory. Sort of off-white and clearly smoothed down around the edges from being handled over years.

“I think you can start there.” Her lips press against the corner of his eye. Right where he knows he has wrinkles. For what it’s worth, she has them just there as well. “I have to get to Josephine.”

There really isn’t enough time to watch her dress. The water is perhaps cooled already. When he catches himself staring at the smooth flesh on the backs of her thighs as she pulls on her trousers, he thanks the Maker the water’s temperature has dropped.

\--

The morning he spends with the soldiers, selecting who will travel to the Emprise with the Inquisitor. Other than that he schedules leave rotations, deployments to other zones, targets a few individuals who appear in need of remedial training. New recruits arrive daily and not all are as battle ready as they claim.

Initial intel suggests a keep under Red Templar control in the Emprise. If the information proves to be correct, he may travel with a second group of soldiers to assist in taking it for the Inquisition. He needs the report from Harding before he can make that call.

By midday he thinks the Inquisitor might have the right idea, only ever asking for summaries and never glancing at detailed reports herself. The stack of parchment on his desk only grows taller despite the steady pace at which he reads. In the tedium of it, he nearly forgets about his meeting with Bethany.

  
\--

Downstairs at the tavern is bustling. It’s still late-lunch hour and all the benches are full of those on leave but with no homes to which they can return. Or the journey is simply too arduous. None of the patrons are Bethany and he fears that he has already missed her. Ascending the stairs to check the second floor, he can hear Bethany’s distinctly Ferelden voice above. He continues on to the third.

She sits on a crate, speaking to Cole. He knows it is Cole during the in-between moments. It has taken some effort, but he is better at remembering. Or Cole has gotten better at making himself remembered. The Spirit still disquiets him. It is against all that he has learned that they should permit it to reside here among them. But that is Sabina’s decision to make, not his. When he does see, remember, all he can think of is the sadness of the boy. How lonely and desperate he must have been, the real Cole. This Cole has made him visible once more. This Cole reminds Cullen of the years he gave to the Chantry, thinking always he was doing good. Now he doubts. Truth be told, he has doubted since the Gallows. His wishing to be good cannot excuse the evil he has committed. The rage he has felt. Sometimes he fears it is too much.

“You can see him?” He asks. Perhaps he should have addressed Cole as well.

“Of course she can,” the Spirit calls back, “Lady Bethany knows much about the Fade, of magic. She has read, she has seen.”

Bethany’s cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink against her fair skin. Her hands are curled in the blue fabric of her mage robes. “Cole has been telling me of the Inquisition.”

“Indeed? He has been with us since the attack on Haven.” For that, at least, Cullen is thankful. Cole brought word to them of the attack, gathered up precious few minutes with which they could prepare and spilled them at the gates. All may have been lost if not for him. It would be ungrateful for Cullen to ever take that away from the boy.

“You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Cole? Commander Cullen has been expecting me.” She navigates such interactions with profound grace. As if it were not he who is late to their planned meeting.

“Of course,” Cole drops his head, concealing his face entirely under the brim of his hat. “Heart pounding, so fast. He says ‘forget me,’ as if it were that easy. But Maker, the time apart has not been enough. Not for me.”

“Cole!” He barks the name, too late realizing he has addressed the boy as he would a disobedient hound.

Even so, it quiets Cole’s unwanted observations. On Bethany’s face is a distinctly horrified look. But after a brief lapse, it sets again, smooth and even and perfectly poised. So very unlike her sister.

“We can walk, if you’d like?” Cullen offers, desperate to do or say anything that does not relate to Cole’s statement.

“Yes, of course,” Bethany smiles and hops to her feet, her boots tapping against the floorboards.

They walk along the battlements. Spring will come soon, but probably not soon enough. Sabina had wanted to wait until the thaw before heading to the Emprise. But those initial reports claim that the thaw will not come. That the lake has flash-frozen. That the Inquisition must go now or risk losing the region permanently to the Red Templars.

While he does not say so aloud, the Red ones horrify him. That they would be him, and him them. Small circumstance took him away from that fate. That he could no longer be the man who followed orders, the good templar. That the lyrium he drank to protect mages from themselves would be corrupted against him. His skill could be used to slay the innocent. To dance to Coryphaeus' march. Line up, be counted, obey.

When he looks at Bethany now, he is reminded of the honor he was supposed to put in his work. But also he remembers his inability to uphold his own standards. How he doted on her in those final days before Kirkwall burned. When tensions were at their highest and she has proven such a refuge from reality, all the while fighting battles of her own.

This meeting between them is nothing in particular. They have had several similar ones as his schedule permits. Bethany knows no one at Skyhold other than himself and Varric. Varric too is often away, trailing behind the Inquisitor, spouting half-formed stories. She has lost her sister, her brother, her mother, she has lost everyone, but she still remains as graceful and lovely as ever. He cannot fathom how she does it. There is little doubt in his mind that Bethany could protect herself from harm, but loneliness is something else altogether.

“Did the Inquisitor tell you?” She walks beside him, at equal pace. The long line of her staff runs down her back. The conscripted mages do not regularly keep their weapons on them, but no one has disarmed Bethany. He does not know if it is by design or oversight.

“No? What?” He stops and faces her, awaiting a response.

“I am to travel to the Emprise du Lion with her party. I believe it to be some sort of test? Though I must say I don’t know what is to come of it.”

He’s genuinely shocked. Sabina said nothing of this to him. “She normally travels with Dorian or Madame Vivienne.”

“Lady Vivienne is coming as well. She scares me, a little,” Bethany scrunches her nose, bunching up a slight wrinkle of skin. This particular tic he remembers. It’s one that he memorized, even before he cared for her. Perhaps it was one of the things that made him realize his level of care. Now it is still charming.

“I could not imagine you afraid of anyone.”

Her laughter dispels any tension Cullen feels. “Perhaps I am a better actor than I thought. But no, did you know that Lady Vivienne, Dorian, Solas, none of them have been trained in healing? I want to believe that is why I am being tested….but.”

“But?”

“Oh, Cullen, did you tell the Inquisitor about me. Does she know?” Bethany looks at her clasped hands, rather than at him.

He stiffens. This is one topic they have not broached. Willfully he believed his letter was the start and end of it. "Yes, when your...I spoke to her about you at some length when your letter came."

"And? You do not think she is trying to dispose of me?"

Cullen forgets Bethany's naivety in such matters. Her refined social graces help him forget. Sheltered by her parents and siblings as a child, she did not spend much time with others until coming to the Kirkwall Circle. Her life was her small home in Lothering and frequent visits to the Chantry before the Blight came. She is devout, beyond all measure really. The Chantry may distrust mages, the Circles may imprison them, but the Maker, the Maker loves all his children. Bethany has always believed so with such ferocity it made his heart stop when she spoke of it. To his knowledge she took no lovers in Kirkwall. In all likelihood she has not taken one yet. Were she not a mage, she no doubt would have pursued becoming a Sister. The Chantry is perhaps poorer because of her exclusion.

He forgets the years between them, though they are really only a handful, are exaggerated by her sheltered existence.

"The Inquisitor is very pragmatic. If she wanted you to leave, she would have the Spymaster handle arrangements."

That doesn't seem to settle Bethany's hesitant fear, still haunting her amber eyes.

"Maker preserve, Bethany, she wishes no ill upon you. Even before your sister...died, she asked if you should be brought here, where you would be safe."

She scrunches her nose and looks away. Outside the walls, forest stretches for miles, giving way to rocky mountains. This place is defensible in a way Haven never could be. But it does not mean they are safe. Their battles lie beyond these walls. For each of them.

“If I can, if she’ll have me, I want to help the Inquisition.” A smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

Perhaps he should stop her. Protect her even if she is no longer his. But he hesitates. It is not his place. Others have protected Bethany her whole life. She may make her own decisions. So he only assures her that the Inquisitor rewards those of talent, and of her talent, Bethany should have no doubts.

\--

He hands off the load of reports to his assistant and asks her to produce a summary. If it takes until tomorrow, that is fine. This afternoon he has other tasks to which he wishes to attend. While the request strikes her as odd, she is in no position to refuse. When she goes to gather up the reports in her arms, he stops her and says she may work at his desk for the time being. He has somewhere else to be.

In the library he finds Dorian, who is more familiar with the tall stacks than he. The mage cheerily offers his help. Despite their differences in upbringing, Cullen rather likes Dorian. He is practical, level-headed, and well-read. Plays wonderful chess as well. So he may be more than a touch vain, and prone to flashy displays, but for the most part Cullen is not subjected to such behavior. Just Dorian likes talking and doesn’t mind when Cullen stays silent. The one-sided chatter makes the time pass. Together they pull what few books relate to Rivaini history and custom.

“So she sent you on a treasure hunt, eh? Clever.”

“Something like that, I suppose. I could have pressed her for more information, but.”

Dorian interjects, “No, no that won’t do. You know our dear Inquisitor likes mystery. She’ll appreciate it if you solve it.”

A knot tightens in his stomach. He should be searching for the source of the noise in her head. The singing of the lyrium in a woman neither a mage nor a templar. Someone who has never drank lyrium. But instead he wastes his time on this petty ivory bauble. Still, it seems the mystery she is content for him to look after, rather than the one that produces anxiety.

“Yes, I suppose she would.”

\--

They reach her quarters within minutes of one another. The sun has long since set. Servants have been through already to light the candles. Despite sharing a bed almost every night since Celene’s ball, he is unsure how welcome he is each instance. But she has yet to send him away. Even if they do not make love, she curls against him, plays with his hair, his hands. He tells her how he loves her. He does not tell her how he imagines their future together.

She’s unpinning her hair, wiping away the remnants of color on her face. Only a small grunt to acknowledge his presence at all. While he wants to ask after a number of things, he begins with what he found through his search. What she might appreciate.

“It’s a quilted pattern.”

Nothing about her posture nor movement gives her away. “What is?”

“This.” He stands behind her and touches the cord that holds the pendant in place, but not the piece itself, not yet.

“So it is.” Her tone is deliberately coy. There is more that she wants from his. Lucky for her, he has it.

“It’s a totem,” he trails his finger along the cord until he just barely brushes the ivory. Presses his back to her chest as she stands behind her. They can see themselves in her vanity mirror. “It has meaning.”

Their voices are barely above a whisper now. “What meaning is that?”

At first it seems obscene to say aloud. It is a much more sentimental gesture than he would have expected from her. That alone must have given her reason to say nothing of it before. Why she waited for him to ask, to search, to find. Now that he knows, he certainly doesn’t want to break the spell. But she’s pulled him along this far.

He turns her around to meet her dark eyes, lets the totem rest against his palm, the back of his hand against her chest. Under her skin he can feel her breathing flutter. Her heartbeat is even. He feels as if he could drown in it.

“It means the wearer is betrothed.”

With her head cocked to one side, she smiles back at him. Her lips slightly parted, the gloss of the morning long gone. Somehow, even in his discovery, he feels that she has outsmarted him.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Funny that.” She tugs at one of his curls. Laces her fingers with his.

Impossibilities.


	17. Sooner or Later Everyone Will Know and You Won't be so Damn Special Anymore

Daylen's boots are caked with mud, leaves, and bits of things he can’t identify. On the trip to Skyhold they've been through thaw and freeze depending on the elevation. Inside his socks his toes feel frozen solid. He wears Alistair's coat at his insistence; says his armor is warmer than Daylen's robes. But when they camp down, side by side in the tiny tent, Alistair complains that Daylen should just warm them with magic. That would be in the service of men. Specifically in the service of two men freezing their arses off in the mountains. Truth is he's no good at flame spells. Alistair knows that.

Along the road he wonders what it would have been like if Alistair had been a templar at Kinloch. If in their youth they would have hidden away behind the bookcases, stealing touches and kisses and sweet words. A secret world between them. The royal bastard promised to the Chantry; the once-loved tow-headed child handed over as proof of a family's devotion. Alistair's fingers running over his skin, in his hair, so proud of him for passing the Harrowing. Giving themselves over to each other in the moments when no one was watching. His robes pulled up, struggling with the latches on Alistair’s armor.

Daylen thinks on these matters because here they are on the other side of thirty with their whispers in the dark. Like it's still forbidden, the Mage and the Templar.

Upon arriving at Skyhold the Inquisitor greets them. She's tall, broad shouldered but slender everywhere else, looks every bit a noble with her long neck, her hair pinned up. Doesn't smile, but nods and offers her hand, shaking his firmly. Two aides are present to take them to their quarters and then escort them back to the Inquisitor, as soon as possible, please.

Space at Skyhold is tighter than expected, so he and Alistair are to share a room, Daylen doesn't mind. More space than the tent. They do have separate cots as well. More importantly, they have a fireplace, already lit by the servants. He stands in front of it for a solid three minutes until he can feel his feet again. Alistair doesn’t ask for his coat back, so he keeps it on, pulls it tighter around himself. The aides call them away. "Warden Alistair; Warden Amell." He remembers Alistair has no family name.

They meet in the War Room, the giant table laid out in front of them. Cast iron markers chart troop positions across the continent. Inquisitor Trevelyan pours him wine, ale for Alistair. Smiles for the first time in his presence and says Leliana remembered their preferences.

The wine is warm going down his throat. Leliana chose particularly well. It is nice to know she is well, but it does not surprise him.

"How much do you know of our war, Warden Amell?" Inquisitor Trevelyan leans back in her seat, one hand on the leather armrest. Holds her wine but does not drink it.

"Alistair has apprised me of the situation on our way here. At least up to your actions at Adamant Fortress." He cannot help but wince. A shameful thing his brothers and sisters did. If he may even call them as much anymore. Really he only has Alistair.

"The remaining Wardens have already been re-deployed, save for you two."

He catches the blood-red color of her nails as she refills his glass. Finally she drinks from her own as well.

"I'm sorry about your cousin. I assume Alistair has informed you of the circumstances regarding her death?"

"Yes." He's only ever seen Marian's face in illustrations for that Tethras book. "We were not close, but still."

"Bethany is here. You may see her later, if you'd like."

There's no real compulsion either way. Life as a mage of the Circle leaves one with little sentimentality for family. And magic is so strong in their bloodline, perhaps his lack of concern is part of that too. It is difficult even now to remember he is no longer a Circle mage. Neither is she. He doesn't know. Still, he should see her. Maybe it would mean something.

The Inquisitor waves off the offer when he doesn't respond. "As to why you are here, I've heard you are researching a cure for the Calling."

He nods. This is going better than he had hoped. When he speaks of the cure his whole body animates, "Yes, Grand Enchanter Fiona was cured by unknown means. I wish to find a way to replicate it. It cannot merely be providence."

"Well, the Inquisition has resources. A fine arcanist. And the Grand Enchanter herself. There is no better place for you to continue your research." She finishes off her glass before refilling only his. "If Dagna's current budget is not sufficient for your needs, let her know. If you require any special materials, don't bother with the requisition system, it's a bureaucratic nightmare. There's a young woman, Sera, she'll be reassigned to help you. She's not at Skyhold at the moment, but is easily reached by crow."

Maker, it is more than he could have ever dreamed. Alistair sits next to him, grinning like an idiot and probably thinking himself quite clever for having arranged all this, or at least facilitating it. Daylen wrings his hands waiting for the catch. When the Inquisitor does not offer it of her own accord, he must ask himself. These things are always a process of exchange.

“What can I offer the Inquisition?” Truly, he is eager to help where he can. Work on the cure must come first, but she offers so much to aid his cause, he cannot help but be grateful.

Inquisitor Trevelyan stands and walks back to the War Table. Her eyes remain fixed on the iron miniatures. One of the odd ones with no place she picks up, holds it in her hand, clamping down.

“Warden Alistair, can you excuse us?”

Alistair starts in his seat. First he looks at Daylen, then at her, back to Daylen. The mage nods that it’s alright. Neither of them really think harm will come to him under the Inquisition. She seems a practical woman, if nothing else. Focused on results.

“Yeah, I’ll take my leave, then.” As he passes Daylen, his hand glances across his shoulders, squeezing briefly before departing.

Only after the door clicks closed behind Alistair does the Inquisitor continue.

She turns away from the table, looking out the window but with the piece still in her hand. “Do you hear it?”

“What?” How could she know that he hears the Calling still? There was no time for Alistair to mention it. Besides, he doubts that he would think to tell her. It’s not so very loud when he’s awake. But when she mentions it, he listens. A mere hiss at the top of his spine, nothing more. For now it is satiated.

“Hm, I suppose you can’t.”

“What is I should be hearing?” He wants to understand. She must speak plainly.

“What did it sound like? Coryphaeus’ false Calling?” Her gaze is still directed out the window.

“Better you ask Alistair.” He sighs deeply, there is no point to keeping his circumstance hidden. “The Calling I hear now, which I have heard for months, is not false.”

With that she does turn, her face falling slightly. But she offers no condolences. Instead she places the marker back on the edge of the War Table.

“As a mage, do you hear other things? Things that are not there?”

“You mean demons? Spirits?”

At first she nods, then shakes her head instead. “Not in the Fade, when you are awake.”

“Inquisitor Trevelyan, I will help you as I can, but I do not understand your questions.”

She puts her hand to her forehead, starts again. “When I was near Hawke, Marian Hawke, she emitted a melodic noise. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Sometimes it was sour, but mostly it was just loud. Like she was singing, but wordlessly, from her internal organs. But now she is gone.”

“And how would I hear something from my deceased cousin?”

“I meant to ask if you could hear it from me? I have reason to believe something about my presence disturbed her. That somehow it was linked. Or maybe your work on the Calling would bring up something. I only know that I cannot hear it from Bethany Hawke. I cannot hear it from you either so it is not simply your bloodline.” Her hands shake as she pours herself a glass of wine. Just as suddenly her composure returns. She holds the wine glass close to her chest. “Tell no one of this. But Dagna already has samples of my blood. If you need more I will offer it. I wish for you to work on both projects simultaneously. Other than that, the Inquisition’s resources are at your disposal.”

“Do you have reason to believe they are related? The Calling and this noise you heard from Hawke?” He will help best he can. Clearly this concerns the Inquisitor a great deal. Perhaps she is scared of Coryphaeus gaining control of her somehow, as he did the Wardens. That is certainly a secret worth keeping. “Neither yourself nor Hawke were Wardens. Have you been otherwise exposed to the taint?”

“We’ve both fought Darkspawn, if that’s what you mean?”

It isn’t, not quite. But it’s a start. “I’m not sure, but I will do what I can, Inquisitor.” He will. Her cause is just. She is what stands between Thedas and chaos. He knows the feeling. If this is his place in this new battle, he must accept it. Give all he can to this world before it blots him out. His final gift.

She offers her hand, shakes his firmly. “Thank you, Warden Amell.”

“Daylen,” he suggests, unsure if she will accept the friendly terms of address he prefers.

In response she only nods.

\--

He meets Bethany Hawke for the first time. His initial thought is they look nothing alike, with her soft brown hair and amber eyes. They don’t have much to discuss between them. Despite that, he hugs her upon first meeting. There are tears in her eyes and she says he is the only family she has left. Never having family himself, he doesn’t know if the tears are wasted or not. There is a slight pull in his chest. He likes her embrace more than he thought he would. There is a comfort to it.

As they sit overlooking the mountains, he realizes they are more alike than he could have dreamed. Her boots tap against the crate on which they sit. It’s nothing she says in particular that makes him like her. And it’s not the delicate slope of her nose, though that looks an awful lot like his too.

She asks him if he thinks magic is a curse heaped upon them by the Maker. In hurried breaths he exclaims that cannot be the case. They are all the Maker’s children. His love is for everyone. And Daylen refuses to believe anything else. Bethany takes his arm between both of her hands and smiles. Says she feels the same. Says she has been very lonely at Skyhold. But more than that she wants to serve. It’s the right thing to do.

When he asks her to tell him about the rest of their family she breaks down entirely. The petals of her composure wilt before him.

\--

“Daylen?” Alistair questions when the door opens.

“Yes, it’s me.” He crosses the small room before taking off his boots. Carefully he lines them up along the edge of the cot-frame. They are still a mess, but cleaning them can wait until tomorrow.

Alistair sits up on the edge of the opposite cot, shuffles his feet before speaking. “Can I come sit next to you?”

Cocking his head to one side, Daylen replies, “Of course.”

Next to him Alistair’s weight causes the cot to sink a little bit. Daylen is still wearing his coat. It’s such a comfort he doesn’t want to let it go. But the real thing is even warmer though there is still a sliver of space between them.

Alistair puts his elbows on his knees and leans forward. He’s already dressed for bed, shirtless, shoeless. “The Inquisitor said I am to leave for Weisshaupt tomorrow.”

“I thought she didn’t want you to go.” He traces a finger along Alistair’s arm. They’ve only allowed themselves small intimacies thus far. The last thing Daylen wants is to push Alistair away. Again. Though technically last time he was the one who ran.

“No,” he throws his arms up in frustration, “apparently she just wanted me to get you first. Maker, she’s got this whole thing planned out to the letter.” He laughs, “that’s not even the worst of it.”

“Hmm?” This time Daylen does not reach for him.

“Did you know Morrigan is here?”

The Inquisitor said nothing of it. Then again, why would she? Morrigan herself, always shifting in the shadows, is not common knowledge, much less her involvement in stopping the Blight.

“Yeah, yeah,” Alistair continues. “He looks nothing like me. Thank the Maker. I don’t think he suspects a thing.”

Now Daylen can’t help but reach for Alistair. “You saw him?”

“Yeah. Weird to think...he was this weird archdemon-baby-thing and now he’s a person that walks and talks and recites weird riddles.” Alistair buries his face in his hands.

Unsure of what to ask next, Daylen simply rubs his friend’s back.

“Should I feel something for him?”

Daylen’s mouth runs dry, “I don’t know, do you?”

Alistair exhales loudly, “I don’t know.”

Neither of them move. Breathing is hard enough. There is an ache in his bones that feels too heavy for his age. Eventually Alistair can’t take it anymore and turns to Daylen, pulling him by the chin and kissing him hesitantly.

“I have to go to Weisshaupt. You have to stay here.”

In response he nods. Both statements are true.

“We should.” Clumsily, Alistair slips his hand into his coat still around Daylen’s body. Heat radiates through his palm. It makes Daylen’s breath hitch.

“Alistair, not if you don’t want to…If you are not ready.”

He hesitates, pulls back a bit. “I worry that I will not return to you. That I will be waylaid at Weisshaupt or, your Calling, it has already come too soon.” His voice is just a whisper.

“That is not reason enough.” He curls his hands around Alistair’s. “I trust in the Maker. He will return you to me. I cannot ask for what you are not yet ready to offer.” In a gesture of intimacy, they lace their fingers together. Daylen means every word of it.

Alistair raises their entwined hands and kisses Daylen’s knuckles. It’s so sweet, so Alistair. And he remembers this is just as he wanted his friend. Why he fell in love with him ten years ago, why he loves him yet.

That night they share one narrow cot, though they are together far too large for it. They slide their legs between one another's to try and scrape enough room to be comfortable. Daylen cannot sleep, not with Alistair so close. That and he catches his dearest friend staring at him through the thick of his lashes.

Alistair's hand is in his hair. To think, the two golden boys of the Wardens, the ones who slayed the Archdemon, huddled against each other chaste as children.

"Did you take your lyrium?"

Daylen nods against his chest. Thinks about the sound of the raw lyrium in the Deep Roads. How it was a lullaby for him, soothed him and Alistair both.

"Did you take yours?"

Alistair nods too, kisses the top of his head.

Sleep nearly finds him, but an explosion cracks through the air before it can. He makes the mistake of thinking it's nothing until the second, and the third.

Cries of, "Fire! Fire!" from the courtyard. Clouds of ash. A lone voice screaming at the gates to be let in.

He recognizes the voice.


	18. We're All Fucked but Some of Us Are More Fucked Than Others

The sharp rapping at the door is unmistakably Josephine. Each of her advisers has a distinct knock that strikes against the doors in Sabina’s life. Though now Cullen also possesses a key. Josephine knocks rapidly, in quick succession. Leliana would knock twice, then wait. Cullen already has one arm thrown over her, her own hand curls at his hip. The knocking continues, Josephine.

And it is the middle of the night. Emergency. Otherwise even the high-strung Josephine would not be so persistent.

Sabina rouses from sleep and grabs her dressing gown, throwing it around her shoulders and belting it only well enough her Ambassador won’t be offended by her indecency. At the racket Cullen rolls over, rubs his eyes.

“Sabina? Who is it?”

Not bothering to answer she swings open the door. Josephine is in her dressing gown, more ornate than Sabina’s, complete with ruffles and gold threading, her hair a mess over her shoulders, face flushed from running.

“Inquisitor. There is...something, someone at the gates. Shooting fire into the courtyard through the bars. The guards have managed to restrain him, somewhat. But you should come, see. He asks for you.” She speaks as rapidly as she knocks.

Sabina nods, “Do I have time to dress?”

Josie is exasperated already, “I am not certain, Inquisitor.”

She dismisses Josephine with a nod and returns to her chambers only to grab her daggers off the dresser. Barely remembers to actually affix her dressing gown properly with her arms through the correct holes. Shoes, shoes are probably non-negotiable, so she pulls on her boots over bare feet not bothering with the laces.

“I’ll come too,” Cullen is already halfway out of bed.

“You get dressed first. You’re useless to me if you can’t defend.”

Before rushing from the room she kisses him at the corner of his mouth, right over his scar. It will take him several minutes more to buckle into his armor.

The courtyard is freezing at night. Sabina regrets she did not grab her fennec-lined coat as well. There are several smoldering piles of ash, no doubt from the flames lobbed between the bars. Crates and bales of hay for the horses, but in the meantime for soldiers to use for comfort. The burnt smell hangs in the air. Flakes of ash cling to her hair.

She can hear him before she can see him. Layered noise. Loud, three voices in one body.

“Bring me to the Inquisitor.”

_She killed her._

The wordless song she hears from the select few; the specter that tied her gruesomely to Hawke.

Stepping forward she can see him now. A tangle of blue seeping through pale skin, dirty blond hair falling over unnatural eyes. Tall and lanky but easily overpowered by two guards, even in his intense rage. They’ve bound his hands together but magic spews forth where it can, literally weeping out of his pores as his menace continues. He fights frantically, viciously.

She tilts her head to one side. “I know you.”

“No you do not, Inquisitor.” Anders looks up, his own eyes glassed over by the blue of Justice. Varric’s description of his physical features is accurate enough, down to the oversized nose; she still cannot trust his recollection of the events at Kirkwall. Never again.

“I’d expected you sooner.” She keeps her voice as level as she can manage. Really she’s so cold it’s a struggle to not let her teeth clatter.

Cullen appears besides her, throwing her long, heavy coat over her shoulders. It’s a welcome weight but it’s warmth is welcomed more. She pulls it tight around her, blocking out the cold.

Cullen's breath hitches. He recognizes their visitor as well.

“You killed her!” Accompanying Anders' roar flames spark all around the small group. The two guards, Anders, herself, and Cullen stand in the middle of the tight ring of lapping fire. The flames nip at her boots, the hem of her coat. In retaliation she flares the Anchor. It reminds Anders she is a bit of an abomination herself. Cobbled together magics that should not walk this world. This fate they share. The difference is, she is the one with power, status.

“I had to make a choice.”

In a strange way, she feels like this is a simple speech she she had been preparing for a long time. No one else, not even Varric, has held her accountable for what happened in the Fade. Only herself and Alistair know for certain what occurred. And Alistair could not hear the piercing noise.

“I was there,” the demon speaks through Anders’ body. A different voice forced into the too-narrow vocal cords of the wrong body, of any body at all. “I saw, you left her. You made her stay. She did not want to die.”

The color of his skin shifts again, the blue cracks sliding into other positions. “She was everything,” Anders nearly sobs. A thick thing stuck in his throat, fighting to find the surface.

“I made the choice for the sake of Inquisition. It cannot be undone.”

“Liar! You who have enslaved the rebel mages. You who stand beside a templar. You who expect your every beck and call to be answered.” Justice judges her as Anders cannot. Anders is too frail, too human to mount such a sustained attack. But perhaps it is his humanness that fights against such impossible odds. “You are no better than the evil you claim to face. Thedas should fear you. You would be a tyrant.”

It’s a laughable statement. If anything she saved the mages from slavery in conscripting them. Her tactics otherwise are only what are needed to win the battle against Coryphaeus. Not a soul could do better in her place.

Cullen’s hand is on her shoulder. As if she needs the comfort. She does not, knowing full well who she is. This manner of demon, even in a pretty body, cannot trick her.

Anders’ song goes sour. Her hand flinches and she nearly places it to her temple. But it is not something she can do here in public. He is so loud up close like this. Louder than Hawke. She can barely think when he sings.

“And what of you, abomination? Should Thedas not fear you?”

The flames around them sink, then flare. They cut out the winter's cold.

“I saw you in the Fade as well, Inquisitor. Saw Pride at your side. Arm in arm. He will come for you one day. Swallow you up. Eat your flesh and pick his teeth with your bones.”

“I am no mage. While I may walk bodily in the Fade, demons hold no power over me here. You, Anders, are already beyond saving.”

She doesn’t have to explain herself further to him. As she expected, he has come to her seeking petty revenge. Now she must only decide his fate. The guards are tiring, she can see their exhausted strain in their faces. Even as they speak, Anders fights them, burns them at their gauntlets, keeps the ring of fire alight.

“The line between bodies is thin indeed,” Justice warns.

_Marian._

With that, Justice departs. A wild rush shudders through Anders’ body that causes him to convulse on the ground. The blue drains away, hidden again under his jaundiced skin. In fear the two soldiers release him. A sound enough reaction. Anders collapses and cautiously the two guards approach him again. The flames around them die down. Sabina waves away the soldiers, their hands are shaking and they are of little use now. Admirable they held up as well as they did.

Face first on the floor, Anders seems like little threat at the moment. He’s worn himself out like a pathetic child. Standing over him, she can see he’s practically skin and bones, in no shape to have traveled from wherever he was before to Skyhold. Disgusting.

His song is quiet now in his stillness.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen stands just behind her. “What do you wish to do about the intruder?”

“Josephine!” She calls out into the night, unsure if she is here in the gathered crowd or not.

The Ambassador pushes her way through the huddled bodies until she stands in front of the Inquisitor. “Yes?”

“Do I have to take him to the fucking hall to stand trial or can I just do it here?”

“Under the circumstances, I believe any decision made would be considered valid and binding. If there are any objections, I shall deal with them on your behalf.”

Her desire is to kill him. Blot him out of existence altogether as she did to his wife. Crush him under the weight of her boot or slit him across his neck with her daggers. But that would be considered excessively violent. The eyes of Skyhold are on her. She is the Inquisitor; she is meant to be just. Laughter escapes despite her best efforts. To the gathered observers, she must look insane. This is enough to drive anyone mad.

In the crowd, she can see Warden Amell, still wearing that warrior’s coat that is too big for his narrow shoulders. His blue eyes look impossibly bright in the darkness. They look like Hawke’s eyes. But he does not sing, and Anders does. It is not what she wants, this decision she has settled on. More than that, though, she wants to live. She can still feel Cullen standing behind her. Cullen who brought her coat.

“Take him to the cells for now. Warden Amell is his keeper. No one is to speak to the prisoner but he or I.”

Those blue eyes stretch even wider. There is no time to speak to him about the circumstances now. She is exhausted and her head full of songs.

\--

"Sabina," Cullen pulls her against his chest once they are behind locked doors. His nose presses against her scalp while his arms snake around her waist. On the verge of collapse, she allows herself to be held. "What is it? Please tell me."

"Anders is very loud. Louder than Hawke."

"Can you hear him now?"

"No. Not from this far away."

He nods against her. Pushing her coat off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. He guides her back to bed. It's so welcome she nearly falls asleep just then. It takes him a moment to undress. With her eyes closed she can hear the clicks and nicks of metal and straps coming undone. Once he settles against her, she turns to face him.

"You did the right thing, telling Daylen everything." He tugs the soft fabric of her dressing gown off her shoulder. Kisses her just there. His lips are warm against her skin. "He is very clever, and dedicated. He will find the answer."

She hums and nods. Wet lips move to the length of her neck, his tongue darting out to lick against her. His hands work the knot of her sash. She thinks about his tongue in other places, between her thighs, against her clit.

Gently he rolls her from her side onto her back. Hovering over her, he parts her robe, exposing her skin to the cool air. In return, she parts her legs. Slides her thighs against the outside of his hips until he bucks against her, a low groan falling from his lips.

"Maker, Sabina. Do you understand how much I love you?" Once again his lips are moving, cutting a line down her abdomen to the hem of her smallclothes. His nose presses against her nub through the fabric before he returns to press a kiss to her navel. "I cannot fault Anders...if the same were to happen to you..."

Quietly she shushes him. Her life is not something she can promise. It is not hers to freely give. Coryphaeus, even after all they have done, remains a threat. The holes carved across Thedas are still her burden to carry. Only she may mend them.

Cullen does not press the subject, instead rolling the fabric from her hips so she is bare before him. Splaying her legs, she invites him forward. One of his thick fingers slides into her first, curls inside her until it is deliciously right. Pressing the tip of his tongue against her clit, he works her in slow, simple motions. Inside her, his finger is faster, pushing against her so deliberately her breath cannot help but come in labored gasps. Like this she will come quickly. Her stomach is already tight with desire that was not there a moment ago. His name is on her lips and then in the air. She constricts, then feels the tension drain away in her release.

On his return voyage to her lips, he kisses at her navel, between her breasts, the hollow of her throat. Leaning against him, she grips his arm, letting her nails scrape just slightly. His fingers reach out for her pendant. It's a gesture she expects he will repeat often.

"Do you think me prideful?" She asks, slightly concerned for the answer.

"No, not in the least, darling."

The endearment warms her chest more than she would care to admit.

"Even though...I assumed."

"Assumed what?"

Even now it is difficult for her to say aloud. To admit to this thing she wants, but feels she should not want. At least not with such intensity. When marriage was simply presented to her as an obligation, an eventuality, a necessity of her station in life, it was an easy thing to reconcile. To attach it to love, to affection, makes it one of the few things she may admit to fearing.

"That you would," none of the words are right, "be agreeable to marrying me."

Laughter reverberates in his chest. "Maker's breath, if you had marched in that first time I laid eyes on you and said you were to be my bride I would have been overjoyed." The arm he has thrown over her pulls her closer.

"That is an exaggeration." In the darkness she rolls her equally dark eyes.

"Less so than you think."

Her mouth is dry, but she must continue, reach out for a semblance of stability. "So you will marry me then?"

"Perhaps I wish you would have let me ask you first. But I probably would have been a coward in that case. But yes, darling, of course. Only, will it be a problem with your family?"

They lace their fingers together under the layers of blankets. From the knots in his joints she can feel where he has broken his hands time and time again.

Smiling against his chest, she explains, "I am nearly thirty-two, they would be overjoyed with anyone who is not a literal nug. Cassia is ten years my junior and a mage but they probably anticipated her marrying first. And you may have no title, but you have station. So, no, it will not be a problem with my family."

Through the darkness she knows he is smiling from the way he kisses all over her face like an excited child. With a gesture so pure, she aches for the same exuberance in herself. But still she worries on corruption, on dying, and control. These are realities she is not soon to forget.

\--

The Emprise du Lion is frozen solid. The same is true of Sabina’s feet. Upon arrival Sera greets them, exclaiming she already has to rush out because what’s-his-Warden needs something. At the mention of Amell, Sabina tenses. Everything about the wait for answers is precarious.

The next day they begin their ascent towards the scouted Red Templar camp. As their elevation rises, their cries are louder in her skull. Now she can tell the difference. Hawke and Anders may have sung, but the Templars wail, they lament. They are easy enough to kill. Cassandra draws them to her in frantic packs while Sabina dashes in from behind. She slits their throats and lets their warm blood rush over her hands. Even through her gloves she can feel the heat of their half-lives escaping. It is difficult to think of them as men and women any longer.

But how they shriek.

“Inquisitor?” Bethany proves to be an adept healer. She will be valuable to the Inquisition. But for now Sabina only wishes for her to not add to the assault of noise she must endure.

“We must continue,” she instructs. “We cannot take the Keep until the auxiliary camps are claimed.”

Bethany nods, falls into place beside Vivienne.

But they do not reach the camp. As they draw closer the noise is everything. It is nothing. The Anchor pulses and burns. Sabina grabs hold of her wrist, tries to quiet it. But she cannot quiet her mind so subduing the Anchor is impossible. Screaming, dying, all around her. Such viciousness that she could never conjure herself. It is too much.

And other voices as well. Cassandra calling to Bethany and Vivienne. The soft whispers of Bethany’s spells.

She cannot see. She cannot see. This realization blinds her other senses. Stops time from progressing. Displaces her from the state of being. Only the noise remains.

“We must get her back to the village.”


	19. Three Blonds Walk into the Undercroft

Seeing Daylen at work comforts him more than he expected. Since Sabina's departure for the Emprise du Lion, Cullen spends much of his spare time in the mage's company. He is as Cullen remembers him, soft-spoken, focused, straight-forward. At Kinloch they were not great friends, only familiar. Of the mages it was only Neria he was unusually fond of. But Daylen did spare his life, save him really, at his darkest moment. The Gallows may be closer, more vivid, when he is awake, but Kinloch still subverts his dreams.

While Daylen works, mixing powders and potions, examining substances through a device that uses several layers of cut glass, mirrors, and artificial light sources, Cullen assists where he can. Usually he scans through heavy tomes that have been imported from various libraries. Dagna ordered most of them when this was her task. Now her time is devoted almost exclusively to armor modifications for the upcoming assault in the Wilds. Sabina's trust in Morrigan seems odd given how little time she has spent with the Inquisition, but her’s is still the best lead they have.

"What do you think, Daylen, of this plan to go into the Wilds?" Currently Cullen is earmarking all passages in "Common and Uncommon Properties of Lyrium Suspensions" that reference Darkspawn, there are few.

Daylen pulls back from his glass contraption before answering. "I think it is generally in everyone's interest to trust Morrigan. There may be unseen consequences, but her motives are exactly as she says."

"I didn't know you were particularly acquainted with her." Another ten pages, no references.

Going back to his task, Daylen squints at something under the light. "I did, a long time ago."

"And she is trustworthy?"

The mage sighs, "She is honest."

\--

The next evening he returns. Daylen stacks another three books on the table Cullen has commandeered. This time the books are on Darkspawn, he is to mark for lyrium. One of the brittle bindings comes apart in his hands. He gives Daylen a sheepish look before continuing.

"We'll find a way to mend it before Dagna notices," Daylen smiles.

After an hour he rubs the bridge of his nose. Admits to himself that he may need more sleep. But Daylen must be keeping hours just as long, being he is still working long after Cullen finishes his regular daily itinerary.

"Have you learned anything from Anders?"

Daylen does not look away from his device, not yet. Breathes low and heavy. Not daring to ask again, Cullen resumes his task. In 435 pages there are twelve references. Though he cannot make sense of them, maybe Daylen can.

When Daylen does step away from his observations, he pulls a chair to sit across from Cullen. He closes the book, careful to note the correct page to which he should return. Despite their previous conversations, they have yet to speak this directly. There are dark circles around Daylen's eyes, heavy and purple, making the blue of his irises look washed out in comparison.

"There is something I must ask Inquisitor Trevelyan, but I am not comfortable sending by crow. It is of a sensitive nature. And I do not know when she will be back." Daylen looks down at his boots, fusses with his robe. Like Bethany, he has not been disarmed at Skyhold. His staff leans against the desk. He reaches for it, fidgets with the grain of the wood. "You two are close?"

The tone strikes Cullen as very much the nineteen-year-old Daylen he knew from the Circle and not the fabled Hero of Ferelden. But, he supposes, legends are different from reality. Like everyone else he saw the portrait Sabina bought in Val Royeaux, the one that obscured everything beautiful about her.

"Yes, we are involved." It's not something he speaks aloud often, even now. The members of the inner circle of the Inquisition know well enough that there is no need to discuss it. Beyond that there are rumors that are not denied but also not directly addressed.

Whatever the question is, it troubles Daylen a great deal. He bites his lip. "Does she have a child? Or, I suppose, more accurately, has she ever been pregnant? The child may have not been carried to term."

Now he understands why Daylen was so hesitant. It isn't something he has discussed with Sabina. Did not seem a need to. Should he know? Now he worries that perhaps he should. But still it seems an unnecessary intrusion of her privacy from his standpoint. She has no heir, he knows that much.

"I do not know for certain."

Daylen runs his fingers through his blond hair. Slouches back in the chair but does not speak.

"What did Anders tell you?"

This seems only a slightly more agreeable topic. "You know he is a Warden, yes?"

Cullen nods. Sits forward in his chair to listen attentively.

"He has gone through the Joining, and been exposed to red lyrium in Kirkwall, and, as a mage, drinks lyrium regularly. On top of that, he's an idiot that shares a body with a Spirit. Maker, I can't believe I didn't see the risk at the time." Resting his arms on the table between them, he leans forward as well. "He's got a lot of magics in him he shouldn't have. Inquisitor Trevelyan said he's loud, louder than anyone else. From what you've told me, Hawke should have only had the red lyrium exposure, but that's not true. Anders, he's more...agreeable to helping me than maybe he would be to helping the Inquisitor directly. But he said that Marian had conceived, at least twice, by him. He's a very skilled healer, you know? One of the finest. But he's also a Warden, he couldn't save them. They lost them very early on. He never even told her. Said it would break her heart. But, this is to say, even though Hawke did not go through the Joining."

"The taint was in her?"

"Yes, I think so. But I don't have any piece of her to test. But it would follow, if it is is caused by the interrelations of magics, she would not be as loud. But I need more information. And the Inquisitor may not even know herself."

Daylen sighs. This is the most Cullen has ever heard him speak in one go. It is a lot to process, and Daylen should be saying this to Sabina, not to him. He is merely a proxy, if an unhelpful one.

"Anders also said he can hear the Inquisitor. Not when Justice is in control, at least he doesn't think so. He said that on the night of his arrival there was an intense ringing in his ears."

"You mentioned the interrelations of magics, what of the Anchor?"

"The Anchor is unlike anything I am equipped to discuss. I cannot find it in any texts. I would need the Inquisitor herself here for tests. And she is needed more elsewhere."

Between them they finish two bottles of wine that Daylen has stored in the desk. Between them they have no good news, so they talk about tavern songs they hate.

\--

There are no books for him to scan. More disturbingly, Anders sits in his chair, seemingly not contributing anything. Dressed the in clean, simple garb he has been provided, he only sits. That in and of itself is an affront.

"Are you permitted to have the prisoner out of his cell?"

From his seat Anders growls his disgust, "I thought you were the one on a tight leash, Templar."

Only a scant few exchanges have transpired and Daylen already looks exhausted with the two of them. "Please play nice. I enjoy company from you both."

Not wishing to upset Daylen, Cullen takes the spare chair instead. Without tomes he cannot occupy himself. With Anders, he feels continuously on edge. Neither of them could be helping this situation much.

"Daylen, why is he out of his cell? Isn’t he a flight risk?"

"Because he is helping me. I need samples."

Cullen adjusts himself in his chair, crosses his arms and waits. The air between the three of them is heavy.

"I never liked you," Anders pushes small stones around the surface of the table.

"The feeling is mutual."

"Marian did though, never could understand why."

That's a shock. And probably a lie. Hawke was never anything but dismissive towards him at her best, vicious at her worst. He finds it difficult to believe Hawke ever liked anyone.

"Well, it's obvious enough she had terrible taste."

Anders pushes back his chair, letting it scratch against the stone floor. The noise is louder than the sound of their voices. Standing, he's not terribly intimidating, still malnourished though he's been marginally cleaned up. "You will say nothing of her!"

"You brought her up!"

Slamming a fist on his research bench, Daylen tries to intercede. Though Cullen does not bother to stand to face Anders, he's sure he's the more imposing of the two.

"Maker! Can you two please just give me a minute? Cullen, let me get a sample from you and then you can just go. I still need Anders."

Anders smirks smugly in satisfaction before joining Daylen at the research table.

"Cullen, you can't hear anything from Anders, can you?"

Oh, he can render a number of smart comebacks for that. But Daylen is so earnest that he should make an effort to be agreeable. To be the bigger man in such a situation.

"No, why?"

"Well," Daylen steps towards him, a needle in his hand. "I need your arm to take blood."

To accomplish that, Cullen must remove his coat. He shucks it before offering his arm.

"You have both red and conventional lyrium exposure. But presumably no taint. Just trying to rule things out."

Daylen's manner is clinical as he draws one vial of blood, then a second. It's a disturbing image, seeing the needle at his arm again. But this time red comes out instead of blue going in. At the end of it he must screw his eyes shut, though he has never been particularly bothered by needles before, now the memory of it makes him queezy.

"I stopped taking lyrium some months ago, if it makes a difference."

That gives Daylen pause. His response goes in a different direction than expected, "If Alistair returns, could you speak to him about it? He shouldn't be shackled, for someone who never really joined the Templars."

"I suppose, but I don't know if I would be of any help."

"You never are," Anders interjects.

Daylen shakes off whatever he was thinking and ignores Anders entirely. "I took a sample from Alistair before he left. So that gives me someone with conventional lyrium and taint exposure, who is not a mage." The amount of information Daylen must keep in his mind is dizzying. Cullen never sees him write anything down regarding his experiments. "The Anchor, though, that variable. Solas told me all he could think of before leaving for the Wilds. But something still isn't right." He suddenly comes out of his thoughts. "You can go, Cullen.”

Not thinking it wise to leave Daylen alone with Anders, Cullen hesitates. But he also knows well enough he cannot hold his tongue. Not under such circumstances.

“Will you be alright?” He asks, genuinely concerned.

“Yes, of course,” the shock is evident in his voice. “Anders is my friend. I will be fine.”

“I’m right here, you know!”

\--

The crow comes at noon. He drops everything to see Daylen. Anders sleeps, his head resting on the desk, stones at his fingertips.

“Sabina has fallen ill at the Emprise. I am leaving soon,” Cullen cannot help but hope Daylen has something for him to grasp hold of. Anything to provide comfort. He requires some form of hope, of progress.

Daylen puts down the orangish vial he examines. “I would like to come with you. I am at an impasse here.”

Kicking Anders’ chair, Cullen wakes the sleeping mage. He starts awake, pawing at the stones. “I hate you.”

“Of course. In any case, you’re going back to your cell,” Cullen explains.

“Daylen?” Anders’ voice is hoarse with sleep.

Daylen nods, “I’m leaving Skyhold with Cullen.”

“Don’t expect me to be here when you return,” he says it with such resignation.

“What makes you think that, Anders?” Cullen really doesn’t have time for his games.

“The Circle couldn’t hold me; the Wardens couldn’t either. What makes you think the Inquisition will fair better?”

\--

Under normal circumstances, Cullen would travel with his troops. But while the journey to the Emprise is planned, its timing is pushed ahead nearly a full week. He remains at Skyhold just long enough to make sure they are enroute before traveling ahead with Daylen.

When they reach Sahrnia an Inquisition officer informs them the Inquisitor's party has already moved ahead to the forward camp. And didn’t the second crow reach them? It did not.

They push ahead through the mountains to Tower Camp. The region has been largely cleared of Red Templar activity, though jagged formations of the substance remain. It is too unstable to be easily disposed of. They do stop once so Daylen can try and sample it, but they have no way of containing it safely.

The horses are weary by the time they reach. And the sun has been gone for some time. But more than anything Cullen is relieved they have made it. When Sabina greets them herself, seemingly in fine health, he is elated, and then concerned. The crow makes no sense now.

“Warden Amell, a tent has been prepared for you. Commander, walk with me.”

Cullen knows that Daylen has questions for her, but they have waited this long and Sabina is difficult to dissuade when she puts her mind to something, so he does not try. Together they walk towards the back of the camp, then beyond the tents. The outline of the keep is in the distance, still under Red Templar control and barely illuminated.

“You were ill?” He asks as they walk.

“There are so many Red Templars here. I cannot get close. Cassandra leads a squad ahead, clears them out. I follow to zip closed any rifts. It is the only way we have been able to continue. I have only told her the barest of details and allowed her to make her own assumptions.”

Cullen knows Sabina and Cassandra are close, but only in an odd sort of way. Not in an expected way. They’d be better suited as rivals, but they are not that either.

They reach an outcrop of destroyed homes, walls decimated, belongings smashed, residents long gone. Orlais, like Ferelden, is full of such corpses of habitation. He worries that there will be more yet.

“This place is just at the edge of my tolerance for them.”

He doesn’t know what is proper, who she wants him to be in this place, the Commander of her armies or her lover. She, as always, makes it clear.

Her hands press against his chest before shoving him backwards against one of the blown out walls. A show of strength that he could resist if he wanted, but he doesn’t. The stone at his back is cold even through layers of clothes, and unforgiving. She covers his body best she can with hers, holding him against the wall and snaking her fingers through his hair. Grinding their groins together and making him hard almost instantly. She bites at his lip hard enough to draw blood then swallows his cry as well.

“Please, Cullen, I have to control…”

There is nothing he would deny her. He nods his agreement. With that she tears off her gloves, dropping them in the snow. The air is so bitterly cold he can’t imagine how far she will take this, but he will follow. Her hands work his buckle while she continues to grind against his leg. Just there he feels such heat it nearly blots out the cold reality.

From her coat pocket she produces a vial. Elfroot and citrus oil, it smells like her. She slicks her fingers with it and settles against him again. pressing kisses to his jaw. “Let me have you?”

“Of course.”

It’s a difficult thing, to get the position just right. With his pants open she slides her fingers against his cock first. Maker, he is hard in anticipation, she has barely touched him. Curling lower, the pad of her finger presses gently against him, just at the edge of penetration. They shift until her wrist is comfortable and there is no danger of causing him undue pain. Her body presses so close to his he wallows in the scent of her. That she is well, out of danger for now, is such a welcome relief.

Her finger slips inside him, warm like the rest of her. Like this, standing, barely concealed in the darkness, there is little room to maneuver. But she curls her finger, presses against him, kisses his lips raw, and grinds against his leg. His cock, pressed flat against his stomach, rubs roughly between their bodies.

“Talk to me,” she whispers against his skin.

Maker, his stomach is tight already, watching the way she just barely flushes. His fingers ghost through the hair that has fallen loose from her ponytail. Finding his voice is difficult enough, aroused as he is, coming just up to the edge from the sight and feel of her.

“I’m yours, Sabina, however you will have me. I belong to you.”

Sharp teeth nip at his neck. She is undoubtedly leaving marks. He wants them. He wants her.

“Yes,” she growls, “mine. My good boy.”

For a moment he forgets himself in the wash of arousal. Says something he knows she will like. That he likes too, even if otherwise he would hide it. It’s that blending between them that they spend so much effort resisting. Between roles, between bodies, station and expectation. “Fuck me, Inquisitor.”

That alone makes her gasp, shudder against him. And he realizes she is coming. Maker, she is coming against his leg from simply friction and the right words. Her dark eyes are wide, frantic. Like she would eat him whole, devour him. Then he’s coming too, with her delicate finger inside him and the rub of leather armor against his cock. He ejaculates against her, running down the front of her trousers.

Withdrawing from him, she wipes her hand against the snow. Her other hand she runs over her hair.

“Maybe you’re not such a good boy after all,” she smiles.

He reaches out to pull her back against him, missing the warmth. Gently, she tucks his softening cock back into his pants.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He kisses her. Like this, with her relaxed, it is perhaps the best time to ask, though he feels weak as well. They still have to return to camp. But these destroyed homes are more private. Between the Inquisition and the Red Templars they feel oddly isolated. “Sabina, I need to ask you something. Or, rather, Daylen needs to know something, about you, it’s a private matter and he’s somewhat intimidated by you.”

She scoffs, “some Hero of Ferelden.”

“I would think you would be flattered to be considered more terrifying than an Archdemon.”

That draws a laugh.

“He needs to know if you were ever pregnant, by a Warden, specifically.”

“Oh.” It’s a surprised, ‘oh’ but not a particularly concerned one. “You know I haven’t had any children.”

“That wasn’t precisely the question.”

“I thought Wardens were sterile?” She pulls back from him just a bit. “So no, I can’t say I have been.”

Cullen sighs, though he is proud of himself for being so level in this conversation. “Not entirely, according to Daylen. Was there ever a point you were with a Warden where you could have conceived?”

“I want to walk back to camp. It’s too loud here.”

And so he follows. Thankfully her tent is close to the edge of camp and they encounter no one. She does not send him away, nor indicate there is another tent already prepared for him. Assuming he is to stay, he unlaces his boots. Daylen’s question still hangs between them.

Shucking her jacket, she speaks without really looking at him. “I did not start on herbs right away. Not until I was nearly twenty.” She presses a hand to her forehead. Closes her eyes. “Before that I was somewhat reckless. There is a chance, yes.”

“I can tell Daylen in the morning, if you do not wish to yourself. But he has come to collect other samples from you. Hopefully from Red Templars as well. He will think this is progress.”

She smiles and sighs, “I’m glad.”


	20. Curse Upon Your Family for Generations of Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four POVs from the damn Hawke-Amells (Bethany, Anders, Charade, Daylen)

The sweat at Bethany’s brow freezes as soon as it reaches the surface of her skin. Going to wipe it away with her gloved hand produces only pricks of snowflakes against the leather. The Emprise is so bitterly cold she doesn't know how the others stand it. Not knowing beforehand, Bethany has nothing suitable to wear. Madame Vivienne calls her a sweet doll of a girl and gives her a heavy coat to throw over her robes. It is too long for her shorter frame and the hem drags against the ground. But it is warm, smells of expensive things.

She means to call forth fire but gets ice at her fingertips instead. Her mind cannot get past it. They have been at this for hours, following Cassandra ahead through the keep, snow whipping at their faces, corridors thick with Red Templars. In each of their twisted faces she imagines the boys and girls of the Gallows in once-shiny armor. Bethany could never bring herself to hate them as Marian did. Not when they had families to feed on their meager wages, and hopes and dreams brighter than the sour future that transpired. Not when Cullen dropped to his knees before her and promised her a better life somewhere, anywhere, even if it must still by within the walls of the Circle.

Part of her thinks she can feel their suffering as well, their agony as they are run through with Cassandra’s blade, as Scout Harding fills them with arrows, Vivienne freezing them twice over. There are other Inquisition soldiers in other packs winding through the structures of the keep, but Bethany has only been tasked with ‘keeping alive’ these three.

They push ahead and call for the Inquisitor when the immediate field is clear of Templars. Inquisitor Trevelyan steps through the cracked bodies without looking down, her boots crunching in the snow, against bone as well. There is some illness that plagues her, renders her unable to fight, but Cassandra will tell Bethany no more than that. Harding has taken her position in the front lines.

The Inquisitor reaches out with her Anchored hand, tears open the sky. Demons fall out a blurred mess, sticky-sweet from the Fade. That smell stings Bethany’s nose. Remnants of a memory she suspects all mages have washes over her. Makes her swoon. Vivienne says it becomes easier. If Bethany had been trained properly in the Circle, she would be better equipped for battle. She holds her tongue, but that doesn’t mean she believes it true.

The demons the Inquisitor will fight, if one can call what she does fighting. Bethany is used to her sister, standing always in front of the target, launching arrows seemingly at random. Screaming and cursing their enemies on their way down, never holding onto stealth very long, always too anxious. Lady Trevelyan she hardly sees. What Bethany can see are the demons breaking apart into glittering pieces, spraying across the snow and absorbing into the air. But by the time she looks, no one is there.

As she tears, she also mends. Sealing the rift shut completely. Seeing it now, Bethany believes too. The Inquisitor must be chosen by Andraste. This is where Bethany is meant to be. So too, her sister’s death must have been the will of the Maker. Some other calling. Little lies like these will comfort her dreams. She has heard the Herald say that there is no Maker. the words seem unnecessarily cruel. She seems unnecessarily cruel. But there is just so much to believe in.

It is long dark by the time they take the keep. They build up the fires to keep warm and the wagons are already coming around to begin provisioning. They have taken the Emprise from the Red Templars. This is victory.

Bethany gathers up winter-blossoms. Few scatter through the walls of the keep. She holds them in her hands, careful not to crush the petals. Making her way to the small chapel, she chants before the statue of Andraste. She chants for the dead and still dying, on both sides of this war. All sides. It is not her place to judge, but the Maker’s.

The room is dark, candles long unlit. Once the flowers are placed, Chant sung, she lights a single wick by magic, completes the rest by transfer. Candle by candle, spirit by spirit. She hopes her sister has found peace. Her mother. Her brother. Her father. All the Templars whose names she will never know, who were imprisoned by their own blood. A flask, heavy at her waist reminds her of this addiction. Hers as well. Nearly everyone’s. A world run on cursed blue magic through innocent blue veins.

“Lady Hawke?”

So unfamiliar to be called by her family name that she does not realize at first the Inquisitor addresses her. Bethany rises and turns. Standing in the doorway, Inquisitor Trevelyan blocks out the sky.

“Yes, Lady Inquisitor, may I help you?”

The Inquisitor leans on the door frame, crosses her arms. “You will leave with me in the morning. We must reach the Arbor Wilds as soon as possible.”

Bethany nods, out of habit, curtsies as well. Even in her filth-caked armor, it is difficult to forget the Inquisitor is noble.

“Knock that off,” the Inquisitor smiles. It looks foreign on her lips. Even now it is difficult to comprehend what Cullen sees in her. But, after all, what did he see in Bethany?

“May I ask you a question, Inquisitor Trevelyan?”

She nods, “though I reserve the right not to answer.”

Bethany’s eyes return to the Blessed Andraste. Rendered in marble, white, alight, pure, the representation can only invoke why she may have been.

“After everything you have seen, with everything you are, how can you not believe?”

“Andraste means many things to many people.” She does not uncross her arms. “Some of those things are beautiful. Some are wretched. I can see all the beautiful and all the wretched in the world without her interceding.”

“So do you believe in the Maker?”

The Inquisitor shakes her head. “The Maker is the most wretched thing she may have seen.”

\--

Anders pleads with Justice to take him to her. Even if she is only dust in the Fade. He needs her. That he could not be there, at her side, tortures him. That Justice will not share with him as he shares with Justice, makes his blood boil. But the Spirit does not waver. Says there is nothing for him in the Fade. Nothing. Not even dust. She is gone. As if she never were.

Even when he sleeps against the cold bench is Skyhold’s cells, shivering alone in the darkness, the Fade will not come. There is some steel trap around his mind binding him to his body. He knows well enough that he is not tranquil. The magic still flows, though only in clumsy bursts. And were he tranquil, this ache inside him would not be so strong. And he does, he aches. For her.

He does not bother to keep track of the days. Only he knows it has been a long time since Daylen left Skyhold. He knows he receives meals regularly. Eats them with detachment, asks after Daylen. But the guards say nothing to him. The order that only the Inquisitor or Daylen were to speak to him is followed to the letter.

After each meal they lock the door. After they lock the door, he unlocks it. He doesn’t need magic to do so. Marian would be ashamed of him if he did. Instead he works the lock open with the hands she trained so deftly. She would wrap his arms around hers, his chest to her back, place his palms over top of her hands. He pressed his fingers along her more slender, cunning ones. “Listen to me move,” she whispered. And bit by bit he learned from the best. The pulse of her thievery, perfected before she could add ‘Lady’ to the front of her name. After he learned, he added ‘Hawke’ to the end of his.

Of his trick, the guards never learn. Day after day, they insert their key, believe that key to be keeping him securely inside. But it does nothing of the sort. Instead he eats, he waits, asks after Daylen and gets nothing in return. Lovely Daylen, too gentle for his own good. Lovely Daylen who killed the Archdemon and, even with dark, unheard of trickery, will still pay the price.

It is for Daylen he waits through the days and nights. But he will not allow the Warden Commander to believe that he was kept here by force. Is he even still the Warden Commander? There are no Wardens left in Orlais. None in Ferelden. Fine time for a Blight on top of everything else.

He asks for his stones to pass the time. Gets only silence in return.

Daylen does return, looking suitably shocked that Anders is in his cell. Smiles warmly. The keys are in his hands, but Anders stops him.

“The door is open.”

That pretty look of confusion that Anders learned ten years ago is on Daylen’s face. The same sort he would get at a bawdy joke. Or when, their heads thick with wine, Anders would slide his hand against Daylen’s leg.

“Why is it open?” Daylen pushes open the cell door and gestures for Anders to follow. Another day in the Undercroft, certainly. Better than any day in the cells.

“Boredom. And so you know I stayed for you.”

“You and your damn pride.” Funny, hearing Daylen curse, even if a mild one.

It has been weeks, maybe, since Anders has seen the sun so round and full in the sky. As they cross the courtyard, he can hear the bells of the bard’s voice from the tavern. Nothing as sweet as Marian’s sing-song-mocking. Always a bite to her words, vicious, beautiful teeth.

“I think I am close,” Daylen confides.

“To what?”

“A cure,” He runs his fingers through his hair. It has grown slightly longer than Anders is used to seeing it. Then again, he hasn’t seen it much since escaping the Wardens. Yet here he is, at the side of his old Commander. In reality, they are both runaways now. That is the only reason they live. Alistair too. “The Inquisitor is glad.”

“I don’t care about the Inquisitor.”

“Well she is financing our cure.”

Daylen produces the heavy ring of keys. Opening the Undercroft is a complicated process of many locks. A puff of dust greets them upon the door coming open.

“I still don’t see why you have to help her. Just lie, spend all your efforts on what is important. What is vital to your cause.”

He helps Daylen brush away the weeks of dust. It sticks to his fingers, clings to his clothes, gets in his eyes.

“She is important.”

“She is a tyrant.” He trusts Justice’s assessment of her. He would not lie, would he? Not with the stakes so high.

When Daylen is settled, Anders takes his place at the desk. Keeps his hands busy playing with the smooth stones Daylen gave him. They scrape against the wood of the desk as he fidgets. For a long time they say nothing. There is no immediately apparent reason why Anders is here, other than to amuse Daylen.

He falls asleep seated upright, stones now silent. The edges of the Fade spread before him, opening to swallow him. Her voice weeps through in staggered cries.

“I’m sorry, Anders. I love you, Anders.”

As he is about to touch the folds of the Fade, the opening cauterizes in front of him. Justice has stopped him again, no doubt. But she is there. She is there and she cries for him. He is certain. The realization wakes him with such a start he slams his fist on the table. The stones scatter.

In a moment Daylen is at his side. Blue eyes stare back at him, full of concern, maybe pity. They are her eyes. Have always been her eyes. He want to pluck them out of Daylen’s skull. It is not fair that he is permitted to keep them. To think, he once had Daylen under him as he had Marian under him. The realization makes him itch.

“Don’t look at me like that,” his voice comes out hoarse.

\--

Charade arrives at Skyhold as many prospective ‘soldiers’ arrive. They stick a target in front of her and tell her to shoot. She paints them a pretty picture with her arrowheads. Gets a little cocky about it, to be perfectly honest. With her assignment they ask her name. She gives it as Jenny, just Jenny. Because after all she grew up a poor orphan like so many. Twirls her hair around her finger until her name is in the ledger. Gathers her new uniform and heads for her cot. Though she’ll never wear it, she notes it would never fit her in the chest.

She hasn’t told the other Jenny that she’s here. The plan is to be in and out soon as possible. She shouldn’t even be here. But curiosity got to her. Had to see this Inquisition with her own two eyes. Make it real somehow. Likes being a Jenny well good, knows she does proper work at it. But funny to think she’s got a special name. Though not really because it was her father that lost them everything in the first place. What they thought was everything. Turned out there was so much more left to lose.

That other Jenny said there was another Amell here too. So maybe, just maybe, she’s here to see this other person she’s only heard about but nonetheless has her name. Doesn’t have that much to go on. Knows Amell is a bloke, knows that he’s a mage, and he’s supposed to be some blond-haired, blue-eyed dream. But from where she can see, it’s just a lot of dreary Inquisition soldiers in their armor. Half of them have helmets on. Hard to see the color of one’s eyes at a distance.

But, what luck, turns out other Jenny knew what they were talking about. Because he does stand out, like the big damn hero he’s supposed to be. Golden boy who killed the Archdemon and lives. That’s impressive. There’s a lot of impressive folks in her family that aren’t her or her dad. So, there’s that.

She tails him. When he descends to the dungeons, she mills about outside, picking at her nails. It’s not until he comes back up that she gets a real good look at him. He’s just a man, a particularly handsome man. So not like her dad, who is the only other male with the name Amell she’s ever laid eyes on. He’s got long, delicate fingers and a sad mouth, turned down at the corners.

Somewhere in her chest she’ll find the words to say, but all of them seem trite. Too much of her life has been spent chasing after a family she was never supposed to have. Maybe they’re cursed. That would explain a lot. Marian is supposed to be dead. Other Jenny told her that. But not because she knew who Charade was. Only because it was news to be passed around. Another dead noble, good riddance.

“Hello?” she asks.

That gives him a start. Sets him back on his heels and he grabs hold of himself in that way mages often do. Like they’re scared of being seen. There is an other, other Jenny who does it a lot. Spent so much time grabbing themselves they had to get out of Starkhaven. The Prince there is all grabby about mages too.

“Yes? Can I help you?” His voice is soft, melodic in its own way. This is supposed to be the Hero of Ferelden, her cousin. She believes it too, because all the stories say he’s selfless. He’s good. So the first thing he asks is if he can help. Sure he can.

“I’m Jenny,” she offers her hand. He takes it, shakes it without question. “Let me start that again. I’m Charade.”

“Then why did you say your name was Jenny?” He tilts his head in a rather adorable way.

“Long story, force of habit.” Without realizing it at first, she tilts her head too. “I wanted to introduce myself, that’s all.”

And really, that is all. With the handshake completed, she turns on her heels and walks away. In her mind’s eye she sees Daylen Amell, Hero of Ferelden, Big Fucking Deal, with his head tilted just to the side, confused by her introduction. And that’s got to be enough. Because she tried this before. Tried to wrestle a cousin from the clutches of fate and failed. Got her dad back, she guesses, but now he’s gone too. Up in flames like the rest of Kirkwall.

At least now she knows she doesn’t look like any of them. But when she sees them, Maker does her heart beat fast. This collection of troublemakers parading as petty nobility with big dreams.

When she gets to the ledger, she hangs around making herself look busy until it’s unattended. Finds Jenny, just Jenny, printed there is stout lettering running into the margins of the binding. She strikes it through with a single mark. Gone, but not forgotten. The trip back to Tantervale will be long. Took her long enough to get here in the first place. But it wasn’t a problem. She’s not anyone particularly important. Only she’s a shadow in a family of walking ghosts. At the very least, she’ll live through this. The others have not been so lucky.

On the road to the Coast she writes in her journal. She writes letters to those long dead, those freshly dead, those still living. She has dozens of pages. Most of them from her childhood, to the father she didn’t think she’d meet. Traces their names over and over in fine, looping penmanship. That’s about all she has left. And still, she decides, she likes being Jenny. Because after she’s gone, Jenny will still be there. She doesn’t think Amell will be.

\--

Daylen works through the night. There is no use trying to sleep. He cannot sleep. The Calling keeps him deliriously wide-eyed awake despite his exhaustion. Three empty lyrium flasks balance upright on the table next to him. It’s more than he should need. He hasn’t cast since leaving the Emprise. But feeling it in his blood is a comfort.

Red lyrium has the taint. That is something that gives him pause. It shouldn’t have the taint. Only living things should. That means red lyrium is alive. That means all lyrium is alive. Sends shivers down his bones, through his blood laced with other living things that are not himself.

He has to imagine it, because his mirco-scope cannot see it, the living pulse of lyrium. Its beating heart. Does it dream? What it must look like. Then he thinks of the broodmother. Bloated and twisted, crying out in pain, yet still fighting to survive. Of all his nightmares, the Deep Road is the most vivid. And how the raw lyrium lining the Roads whined so beautifully. Sung him to sleep really, Mother Lyrium. Alistair tucked into the bedroll next to him. His eyes wide open through golden lashes.

With the cure, he will live to see Alistair again.

His hands shake. Lyrium dust flies up his nose making him cough. That alone may kill him before too long. But he presses forward. More than defeating the Archdemon, this is a task only he can complete. He rubs his eyes until they burn. The burn keeps him awake, alert. Everything keeps him awake.

In the morning he retrieves Anders from his cell. Trots him in open view across the courtyard as his personal prisoner. Knows well enough that the trip must be done early enough in the morning that the Orleasan nobles who choke the main hall will not gossip too heavily. Avoiding the rumors entirely is impossible.

“Daylen,” Anders always has questions. As he should. There is no one else for him to speak to. Daylen often feels the same way. Both Bethany and Cullen are with the Inquisitor in the Wilds. Hunting other magics that may well drive the Inquisitor madder yet. Maker knows his magics are burden enough. Anders too. They are all abominations on two legs. “When you dream, can you still enter the Fade?”

He sighs, “I cannot sleep for the Calling.”

His answer appears to anger Anders. He goes back to playing with his stones as Daylen works.

“Justice will not let me see her.”

He does not have to ask who the ‘her’ is. For Anders, there is only one ‘her.’ One that breaks him apart over and over again.

“Do you wish to be separated from him?” Daylen blames himself, even now. Had he been more perceptive, a better friend, he might have seen some sign, some warning of what was to later transpire. Anders cobbling himself together with Justice.

“No, it would be losing part of myself. I’ve lost so much already.”

And that, of all things, makes Daylen want to scream. Instead he clenches his fists and separates the potion into two equal doses. Anders’ statement makes him fume. At least he had something to lose. Daylen has nothing, nothing. Even Alistair has slipped through his fingers. On his way to Weisshaupt. Perhaps already arrived. But not a single crow. Maybe he was a fool, not throwing Alistair against the cot and ravishing him with kisses. Not guiding his hands to where they belonged against his skin. Whispering sweet words against vulgar directions of where to press and pant and pester. He thinks of it, when he touches himself, how Alistair would fill him, rub against him. How sweetly he would blush, ask if he was doing alright? Because yes, yes, everything would be alright because he is Alistair and Daylen has wanted nothing more than that for a decade now.

The doses are ready. One he hands to Anders. The other he keeps for himself. It’s a viscous, yellow fluid. Entirely unappetizing. Smells like the wet end of a nug too.

“So we drink it?” Anders scrunches his nose at the smell.

“Or we could inject it.” That seems like the better idea now. Daylen can barely stop himself from retching when it comes too close to his nostrils.

They each prepare their own syringe, drawing the fluid up the needle into the chamber, double checking for pockets of air. The deft hands of long-lived addicts. Anders does not wait once his needle is ready, pressing it against the flesh of his arm and administering the potion. He exhales heavily. Daylen follows close behind.

The next twenty minutes they spend convulsing on the floor. The Warden cannot remember his name. Only that he is to go to the Deep Roads and fight. But his legs will not carry him there. Sweet, blighted mage, you cannot escape your fate with petty sciences. Magic wrapped its talons around you too long ago. It is in your blood, your hair, your soft and gentle voice. This magic that reaches from the depths of history to grip you at your throat and steal your breath.

“That was as bad as the Joining.” Anders wipes black bile away from his mouth. It is all over his chest, a horrific wet patch of dark sickness.

Daylen can only manage to stare at the jagged ceiling of the Undercroft, counting mineral deposits he did not notice before. They are beautiful in their complexity. He wishes the whole world would fit under his micro-scope.

The Calling seduces him still.

“I failed,” he whispers with his fingers pressed against his lips. When he draws them away, he sees blood on them.

“No, you just didn’t succeed yet.” Stripping off his soiled shirt, Anders is already back on his feet. He offers Daylen a hand back up.

Copper still on his tongue, he manages a smile. “Then I suppose I must try again.”


	21. I Cannot Abide Another Series of Sparks in My Blood

Where the Emprise was freezing, the Arbor Wilds are a sticky, muddy, choking heat. The air fills up all the available space in Sabina’s lungs until there is no space left for speech. Silently, she stalks behind Cassandra as they cut their way through. Her eyes stay trained on the Seeker’s helmet, never losing her position against the foliage. 

Luckily, the Red Templar presence here is not as thick as the air. While they sing to her still, she can maintain some degree of focus. The loudest ones fall first, even if they are not the ones Cassandra has picked out for immediate disposal. Even from across the field of battle, Sabina can see her scowl as she refuses to follow Cassandra’s lead. In response she can only shrug her shoulders. As always, her priorities are her own. 

Morrigan holds her own, fights well, provides little in terms of comment. A great deal of time she spends staring at Solas, the way he walks, he casts, the tilt of his head. Narrowing her yellow eyes and sneering. Sabina doesn’t know what to make of it. The witch reminds her of a bird of prey, skittish and deadly. When she hesitates, Bethany asks her if anything is wrong. By now she has learned that it is out of habit she asks. Equally of habit she replies she is fine, leaves the pack of mages behind her and walks with Cassandra up ahead.

“If it is too much, we can proceed as we did in the Emprise?” Cassandra looks straight ahead even when speaking directly to her. It is a characteristic Sabina particularly likes. She particularly likes Cassandra in a more general way as well. The Seeker keeps no secrets of value. Because of this she will make a terrible Divine. But she will not be ousted by her opposition because she is willful and strong. So Sabina does not worry on her sake. If she wants the Sunburst Throne, let her have it.

“No, we do not have the time. We must reach the temple.”

And Cassandra does not ask a second time, because she will not coddle Sabina. Even when she was in chains, Cassandra treated her as an equal. That speaks volumes for her character. Sabina has already made her intentions clear to her friend, yes, she is a friend, that if she is to perish before her, she cannot abide by an Andrastian funeral. Even for the sake of her father; even for the sake of the Inquisition. Cassandra shrugged off such a suggestion. It seems impossible that the Inquisitor might fall. Such an outcome is not at all an option. 

When unknown elves cut through the latest wave of Templars, Sabina breaks away. They move unlike anything she has ever seen before. Graceful, but with such precision they almost appear mechanical. Sophisticated machines. She wants to take them apart. See what's inside. Surely Cassandra will scold her for her unannounced departure, but she enters stealth and follows their path. 

They are shimmers against the leaves that she can barely follow. A glare of sunlight through the canopy. Thorns prick at her armor and the bare skin of her face. Their glimmer fades. She has lost them. Lost her companions as well. 

Somewhere deep in the Wilds. Silence. Nothing. 

Gives her pause. 

Then the rush of realization. It has been eighteen months. Eighteen months of screeching songs and idle chatter. Reports and requisitions and needs beyond her ability to cope. Here, in the hostile forest, she is deaf. It’s such a glorious feeling she drops to her knees, putting her face in her hands. Like the silence, her tears are full and heavy, smearing across her face. Here in the silence. Where no one can hear her. 

Looking up she sees only the green-blue canopy above. Shot through with fading light. In that moment she wants to fade away too. This life is too much. 

Grabbing her wrist, the Anchor is silent, docile. This magic she did want, which her body can barely contain. She releases her wrist and holds out the other hand. The one that should be without magic. She repeats the gestures of her dreams, the ones where she can rattle the world with sparks. Dreams she had long before the birth of her sister. 

And this time it comes. The lightning comes through her fingertips like a tap that has been opened. Unwieldy and dangerous, the sparks skitter against the carpet of the forest and die out with no place left to go. 

No. No.

This cannot be. She is no mage. Her beautiful mother cried tears of joy when they were only dreams of a silly little girl. Cried tears of sorrow when her second daughter made it real. 

She withdraws her hand. Now they have both betrayed her. The left and the right. 

But she cannot stop. Dampness seeps through the leather of her armor, making her knees and shins wet. Pushing against the soft ground she raises herself up, wipes at her face. Unknown poison in her eyes, if anyone asks after their redness. Her bearings are good, so before long she hears Cassandra’s battle cries. Enters stealth and appears behind a target, plunging her blades into its back, brutally ripping them down. Listening for the crack of broken ribs. When the body falls between them, Cassandra’s face is on the other side.

“So nice of you to join us, Inquisitor,” she says dryly.

“I lost track of them,” Sabina offers.

Cassandra grunts before turning away. 

\--

Cullen waits for them at the temple, holding back Red Templars as they try to advance on the ground they have fought so hard to gain. From the ruined aqueduct, Scout Harding calls down and waves. Says she’s been picking them off best she can. She’ll take that hazard pay bonus any time now. In lieu of that, an assignment with Sera.

Sabina gives her a terse smile she may not see before pulling Cullen away. 

“Commander, walk with me.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Inquisition forces are holding the entrance to the temple for now. Morrigan and Solas inspect the area for immediate traps. Somewhere inside awaits the Eluvian. Coryphaeus is ahead of them as well, but they cannot rush in blindly.

She waits until they are well out of both earshot and line of sight before continuing. 

“There are two matters. Both of which blend Inquisition and personal concerns,” she does not touch him. Doing so would tip the balance of what she must say, too much one and not enough the other.

After he nods she continues.

The order of her two revelations may be unimportant, but she considers it in any case. 

“Josephine has completed the paperwork. I have signed it already. Only you must do the same.”

Cullen winces, “It’s so impersonal.”

“It is only a contingency if something happens to me before we return to Skyhold.”

The pendant is tucked flat against her chest, under her armor. Cullen runs his fingers along the still visible cord. She can feel the heat from his hands though they are not quite touching. The cord separates them.

“Second,” she sighs and steps back. Cannot be too close or she risks hurting him. Raising her right hand, she sets of an unruly burst of white lightning. Immediately, Cullen’s eyes go wide and he grabs her wrist. Staring at her hand, he turns it over and back, inspecting both sides. 

“That was not the Anchor.”

“No,” she admits, “it was not.”

“How?”

“I think, before long, we will all have it.”

And she does, she believes they will. Because there isn’t a human or elf or qunari or even dwarf who hasn’t been touched by these things. Lyrium, taint, demons, the rifts like wounds across the landscape, festering. Something is happening. Templars, Seekers, Arcanists, the Tranquil, Shadow Walkers like herself. Calling things not-magic when it is clearly an interrelation of ‘abilities.’ It’s happening to her first, the one who walked the the Fade. But it is creeping. Soon, it will be in all of them. It is already in all of them. She is certain. 

Because of the exhaustion of the day, her voice comes out cracked. “Do you still love me?”

First he takes her left hand, kisses her palm. Takes her right, kisses that too. “Always.”

She nods, turns away, readies herself for the temple. 

\--

Inside the mechanical-moving elves stand unwavering before Coryphaeus. Samson wallows at his master's side, snarling and biting with his words. He who Cullen once said was too soft with the mages of Kirkwall, a twisted shepherd of Red Templars through this time of strife. 

She does her best to block out the noise. It's white hot behind her eyes. But it will not defeat her. Not when she is so close. 

Coryphaeus steps towards the bridge, reaching out towards one of the elves, grasping him by the throat. Her feet carry her towards him faster than her allies can follow. She barely remembers to throw powder at her feet. But in attacking the elf, Coryphaeus crosses some sort of threshold. The magic of the stones binds to him, burns him. Skin peels away from bone, bubbling, searing. The smell it horrific. Smells like the rotting Templars they burned in the Emprise. Smells like Darkspawn and bile. She only stops just soon enough to not get caught in the blast. It obliterates Coryphaeus. But his song, less discordant than the Templars, because it carries none of the pain, does not silence. He is dead but not dead. 

The elf, who was thrown backwards, smirks. But he is wrong.

Mechanical-elves run after Samson, who in the commotion, has gotten out in front of them. 

“We have to follow!” Sabina shouts. They cannot see her, but are used enough to taking orders from the seemingly empty spaces that house her voice. 

Something knocks at the recesses of her mind. Wants to be let in. Just as soon, it is gone.  
Solas, Morrigan, Bethany, and Cassandra start across the bridge. Her intention is to follow. But as she turns, she catches it out of the corner of her eye. One of the Wardens Coryphaeus managed to keep, already slain by mechanical-elves, twitching and humming. Spasming back into life. His bones break first with a horrible crunch, then the skin rips away until he is unrecognizable. Then recognizable again. Coryphaeus. 

Morrigan catches sight of him as well. Shooting off a spell to buy Sabina time. But the time will not help her. Her feet are leaden. Tainted things. The boundaries between bodies are thin.

“Inquisitor!” Bethany calls out.

Finally shocked out of her fear, Sabina turns, she runs. The false Archdemon crests overhead as she slides into the temple, doors slamming shut behind her. 

\--

“Listen, listen,” the Well of Sorrows whispers. 

Morrigan hears it too.

“We shall tell you everything. Once you subjugate to her will.”

Sabina will do nothing of the sort. Too many magics. If this is a price Morrigan is willing to pay, let her. Sabina has no desire. Because of magic she is impoverished. Nothing left to spend on Mythal.

“Inquisitor. We want you. She wants her. You must choose,” at least it can be said the Well asks politely. None of the other magics were so kind before they assaulted her. 

“If you want this knowledge, Morrigan. It is yours.”

Morrigan does not fear being bound to the will of a dead god. In truth, Sabina fears any notion of the gods she does not believe in. These elven whispers are as vile as the Chantry’s will. Neither are a burden she is willing to bear. And so, Morrigan kneels in the well. Brings the water to her lips and drinks deeply.

As the water drains, pours itself into Morrigan’s fragile, convulsing, body, the whispers fade. Before departing, they tell her, in bits and pieces barely rendered that she must succeed. It is Mythal’s will that the Inquisition succeeds against Coryphaeus. After that, She will judge as appropriate. Sweet success, petty tyrant of the Inquisition. 

The water is gone. Morrigan retches but nothing comes up. Holds her abdomen. Her tears are clear as day against the now-dry stone. Sabina steps to shield her, so the others cannot see. The confidence Morrigan exudes, Sabina recognizes in herself. 

“They speak to me, the will of the ages.” Her composure restored, Morrigan smiles. 

“Now let us hope they can help us.” 

Before she could not hear Morrigan. Briefly now, she does. Then it is gone, carried away in the breeze. Odd. But Sabina knows the witch is different. And she really is a witch, not a mage. Something darker, older, closer to reality.

“Oh, they shall.”

\--

Her knees and thighs ache from the return trip to Skyhold. At least here, the only noise to interrupt her is that of Inquisition business. And Anders, of course, Anders. But she does not visit Warden Amell. In the morning, perhaps. After her meeting with her advisors. For now she simply wishes to bathe.

The servant brings in hot water for her bath. Pours it into the marble tub and curtseys as she is about to leave. Though she has never done this before, Sabina stops her.

“What is your name?”

The girl flinches when asked. And she really is a girl, maybe in her late teens. With blonde hair and blue eyes and the narrowest nose that Sabina has ever seen. The points of her ears are tucked under her hair. 

“Nehn, my Lady Inquisitor.”

“Nehn, are you Andrastian?” 

The girl looks back as if she is afraid she will be Sabina’s next meal. Maybe, in Sabina’s preceding life, she might have been, in a way. All thin wrists and thin hips. Lovely and delicate in the way elven beauties are. 

“Yes, my Lady Inquisitor,” she does not look up, eyes affixed firmly on her feet.

“Wait,” Sabina commands.

She walks to her vanity. From inside one of her carved wooden boxes she pulls a gold bracelet. It’s a finely crafted thing one of her aunts gave her for her ninth birthday. The year before Cassia was born. 

The inscription inside is well known to her. She says it aloud without having to look at it. “The one who repents, who has faith, Unshaken by the darkness of the world, She shall know true peace.”

“Transfigurations, 10:1,” Nehn is correct. Of course she is. She is a city elf who has come to the Inquisition of her own free will. She thinks Sabina is the Herald of Andraste. She thinks that the woman who stands before her can do great things, miraculous things. 

“It’s yours.” 

She slides the bracelet over Nehn’s wrist. It fits easily, from a nine-year-old human girl to a seventeen-year-old elf. Hands equally delicate, with tiny bones. Breakable girls. 

“My Lady Inquisitor, I cannot.”

“Now, go.”

Cullen’s arrival silences any protests Nehn may have had. Her hand clutches the bracelet around her wrist as she rushes out past Cullen. 

“What was that about?”

Sabina sighs, “I gave her some silly trinket that could feed her family for years if she sells it. I don’t think she’s clever enough to do it, though.”

Instead of responding, Cullen cups the back of her neck and pulls her forward into an unhurried kiss. His tongue presses against her lips until she parts. Clutching her hands in the fur of his coat, she pulls him towards her. When she can feel him smile against her she smiles back. 

“You lived,” he pulls back, rubs his thumb against her neck.

“And you didn’t sign,” she teases, half-knowing why. 

“Maker, I know you don’t want some Chantry affair, but could we please do something slightly more than signing a bit of paper while not even standing in the same room?” 

She waves him off. “You have to sign eventually. I’m landed nobility. Without an heir most of it reverts to Cassia, but I don’t want to leave you with nothing.”

“I’m not marrying you because you’re ‘landed nobility,’” he growls. 

Her comeback dies on her lips as he grips her thighs, hoisting her off the floor. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she lets herself be carried to the bed. His weight against her is solid, the way he holds her down. Of course, he will always be stronger than her, only she is more cunning. Against her leg he is hard already, and with so little contact. Like he’s eighteen and not thirty-three. But his lips at her neck are not eighteen, that is for certain. 

“Please,” his breath rolls over her skin. “I want…” he stops himself short. 

“What do you want, Cullen?” She cards her fingers through his golden hair, watching as it catches the light from the windows. 

He looks away, a blush on his cheeks. In a sentimental moment, she believes she’ll never tire of it. “I want to pretend.”

“Pretend what?” 

His weight is cutting into her hip. It’s not comfortable, but she doesn’t tell him to move. Maybe he wants her to pretend to be weak. So be the submissive mage-girl he thought about as a templar-boy. What was her name? Neria? Maybe in a more general sense he simply wants to dominate her, show her he is not always her ‘good boy.’ Maybe something else, with her feet or her long hair. Or to play the part of the Rivaini heathen and he’s the dashing Southern brother come to sing her the Chant behind closed doors. She’s heard it all. It shouldn’t bring him shame. 

Hand tracing against her other hip, across the plane of her stomach, he explains. “I want to pretend you will have my child.”

Saying it brings him more pain than it should. 

The simpleness of the request catches her by surprise. But it shouldn’t, really. Even being with her, he is still Cullen. He’s still an Andrastian from Ferelden who likes simple, direct things. Who likes obligation, rules, and truthfulness. 

“I may yet,” she comforts best she can, “once this war is over.”

“Can we pretend?” He asks again, so earnest.

She nods and takes his hand, guiding it to the snaps on her riding outfit. With one hand he pulls them apart.

“Maker, Sabina, thank you.”

The leather of her riding outfit comes apart in his hands, pulling away from her skin, still slick with perspiration. They maneuver her out of it together, keeping her back against the mattress. She’s vulnerable like this, unclothed with him above her. But this is a game. The herbs will protect them. So she plays, dancing between personas.

“Cullen,” she touches the bridge of his nose, tracing it to his scar. “I love you.”

He inhales sharply, grabs her wrist and kisses the inside of it. 

“Let me undress, darling.” 

Overeager, she nods. When he pulls away to shuck his clothes she is left cold. His boots take some time to unlace. Propping herself up on her elbows, she watches him undress, the lines of his back shifting as he disrobes. His fingers are clumsy in his excitement. They are not quite bare, still in their small clothes, but it is enough to get started. His weight is between her legs again, the heat of him intense.

“I want you to put your cock in me, husband,” she coos. Under his breath he says the name of the Maker, like he often does. “I want you inside me, please?” Making it a question plays with their positions of power. Makes her weak for him. 

“Spread your legs.”

She obeys, allowing his hands to drift down her bare torso, stopping at her dark nipples to tease them hard. The pattern of the knots in his knuckles is something she has slowly memorized. He slides her small clothes from her hips, parts her folds and licks at her clit until she is soaked for him. When he stops just short of her orgasm, she whines in protest. Kissing and laughing against her thigh. She looks between her knees to glare. 

“Finish what you started.”

Mercifully he does, nipping and licking at her until her stomach grows tight, a familiar shudder running through her, from her neck to her toes. As he crawls back up her body, she plays with the hem of his small clothes, dipping below to run her fingers against his sharp hipbone. 

“Do you want to fill me with cum, husband?” She likes the effect that word has on him, the low, studdering groan at the back of his throat it wretches out of him. “Do you want to fill me with an heir?”

He stops her, pulling her hands away from his chest, holding her eyes. “Not like that. I told you, don’t care about that.”

She tilts her head, hair rubbing against the pillow under her. Oh, she thinks, oh. 

Tries again. “Do you want to have a baby with me, Cullen?”

This time he nods, slides into her swiftly and braces himself against her body. She manages to choke back her cry, he is a little too rough, but she adjusts quickly enough. 

“A beautiful, healthy, curly haired child?” She offers as he bites into her shoulder.

“I will take such sweet care of you both, darling.” His hands and mouth skim across her skin. Gripping her at the narrowest part of her waist, he holds her in place. Slams into her. Rattles her teeth. “You will look so beautiful swollen.”

That makes her smile, the mundane things that could make him happy. 

“My wife,” he sighs. But it’s not true yet, because he stubbornly refuses to sign. It could be over and done with already if he did. “To make you heavy with my child, oh, Maker, Sabina.”

His cock is thick inside her, pressing against her. She splays further to accept his rapid thrusts. He’s close now, so deliciously close. 

“Please, I want it, I want you.”

He whines, claws at her. Seems on the verge of tears. 

“Want you to father my child, Cullen.”

That sends him over the edge, spilling into her, keening over her. When his honeyed eyes open, she swears she can see stars in them. She smiles in return. His arms on either side of her shake. 

“Good?” She asks.

He swallows hard, nods, and rolls over next to her. Empty now without him, she can feel his cum running out of her, onto the sheets. 

Possessively he wraps his arm around her, pulling her close. 

“Sabina, will it only ever be about duty for you?”

She sighs, the mood has shifted. It’s a serious question, not the play they agreed to earlier. 

“I have spent my whole life assuming it as duty,” she traces a nail along the pink of his nipple. “Never thinking that having a child with a man I love was even an option.” But there are still several hitches in such a plan. She doesn’t vocalize them. Cullen knows them too, well enough.

\--

In the morning they arrive at the War Table together. Josephine smiles at their arrival. Leliana and Morrigan enter soon after. The journey back from the Wilds may have drained them, but there is work left to do. Their victory has put Coryphaeus on the defensive, but he is not defeated. After this meeting, she plans on seeing to Warden Amell. His crows suggest that he has made some middling progress. Perhaps not quite the cure yet, but the magics are coming apart, bending to his observations. He takes apart the arcane as artificers do machines. Admirable. 

Morrigan is certain she can counter Coryphaeus’ dragon. And with the dragon defeated, he should not be able to move between blighted bodies. The prospect of it still sends chills down Sabina’s spine. The knocking she heard, the request to be let inside. She is a blighted body, no matter by what accident.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen begins, “In preparation for finding Coryphaeus’...”

There is not time for Cullen to finish his statement. 

The Sky Pulses.

Coryphaeus screeches. So clear and so loud she knows it is not inside her head, but all around it. The others cover their ears as well. 

“He has found us,” Morrigan sneers.

It is too soon. There are dozens of other matters to which she must still attend. The taint in her blood one among them. The sparks from her fingers. The rifts and templars gnawing at Thedas with their sharp teeth. So many other matters. But now there is no time. Only one thing comes immediately to mind before she rushes from the room. 

“Cullen, sign, please.”

She must reach Warden Amell.


	22. Here's Your Gold Star. Real Good Effort There, Keeping Clean

Before he can protest, she's already out the War Room door, the low heels of her boots hitting against the stones. Running, not the collected way she normally drifts around Skyhold with an agent or advisor at her side. Leliana steps away as well, undoubtedly crafting the necessary crows in her head, sorting them into order of importance. Her spies spread across the continent, needing adjustments for the latest development. Only he and Josephine remain around the table. He should go too, grab the shock troops stationed at Skyhold and prepare for the Inquisitor's deployment. From her reaction, she clearly means to meet Coryphaeus now. Even though it seems like his terms, not hers. 

"Cullen," Josephine's voice snaps him back to the current moment, not what lies ahead. Of all of them, her work is finished for now. After all this, making sense of the wreckage of the battle will he her task, but in the spiked moments of absolute martial combat, Josephine can only wait. Contemplate, perhaps, conjure first drafts of history, but hers are idle movements for now. "Has your decision changed?"

On the trip from the Arbor Wilds back to Skyhold he read Sabina’s documents, her terms, word for word, dozens of times. Line after line by the lamplight in their shared tent while he believed her to be sleeping. No way for him to confirm for certain that she was. But if Sabina did know how he strifed over the papers, she gave no indication. Knows well enough he still has not put his name down. Other than that, she did not intervene before now. 

"Josephine, is it cruel that I will not sign?" He desperately wants someone to confirm that he is not crazy, that it is alright for him to want something more than parchment and ink. That he wants to stand at her side, even if she will not allow a Mother to be there. To feel her skin against hers as they are wed. How is that more a silly sentimentality than anything else they have done to this point? Why is it a gesture she finds so objectionable?

"Why will you not? The terms of the contract are more than fair."

He cards his fingers through his hair. It surprises him that Josie is not more of a romantic. Would have expected her to be, the way she talks of a love she has yet to find. 

"It is not about the contract. I am not interested in the contract. Why is she so concerned about what parcel of land passes into my family if she dies? I do not need her compensation, I need her."

This is time he cannot afford to be wasting on this particular disagreement. And Sabina isn't even here to defend her side. She’s nothing more than the empty space she has left behind. Already moved on to the important things, away from what she considers only a triviality, but in which he has always been more deeply invested.

"Cullen, you have read the documents, yes?"

He sighs, exasperated. There is no reason to take his frustration out on Josephine. "Yes."

"And your only assumption is that the terms are set in the case of her death?" She balances her tablet against her hip, the candle wax running down. Time running out.

"Why else would she want this now? When we are not even sure we will be victorious?" And really, while her motivations have not been transparent, he chalks her insistence up to two factors, bypassing the Chantry, and preparing for the worst case scenario. Some sort of future where she is dead and he gets half a dozen farms in exchange for making her feel loved for a few months. As if she pities him.

"She is not the only one at risk in this war. What if you were to die? You have read the terms." 

This is something he has not considered. She is ill, yes. And she spends more time in the field. By necessity, as the only one with the Anchor, she must. But his position is not wholly without risk. They are all at risk in service of the Inquisition. 

"Oh," he furrows his brow, thinking over each passage in turn. Knows them nearly by heart now. "Give me the contract."

\--

By the time he reaches the Undercroft, Sabina and Anders are nearly at each other's throats. Shouldn't be much of a surprise. Anders has seemingly made a career out of being an insufferable ass. As much as he’s managed to make a career out of anything other than leeching off of his wife. At the very least no one is throwing anything. But Daylen does stand aside, arms limp at his sides, pleading with his eyes for Cullen to intervene, somehow. Bites his bottom lip while looking from the fighting pair to Cullen.

"You act as if I planned for her to die! As if it were some sort of sinister plot!" Sabina yells, her composure just barely in place.

Anders sneers back, "No! You know full well she is not dead, you trapped her in the Fade!"

"Sabina, Coryphaeus..." Cullen writes Anders off as a lost cause. He is inconsolable and insufferable when it comes to Hawke. On the other hand, Sabina may be calmed.

She pulls back at the sound of his voice, snapping out of her rage. "Warden Amell," turning away from Anders, her anger is still visible from the way she clenches and unclenches her fists at her sides. "So are you to say we have nothing in terms of curing the taint?"

Daylen looks back to her, adjusting his posture when addressed. "Not nothing, maybe. I have scheduled another trial for today. But none of the previous have worked. And there have been side effects."

She waves off his concerns. "We know Coryphaeus can travel between blighted bodies. _I_ am a blighted body. Him somehow getting inside my body would be the worst possible outcome. But presumably we will need the Anchor to defeat him."

Daylen sighs, "Presumably, yes."

The laughter bubbling from her lips sounds sick. It’s so sudden, like she'll hyperventilate at the end. Her composure coming apart at the seams. And Cullen realizes full well there is only so much he can do.

"You're mad," Anders' addition isn't a wanted one, or useful.

"We could just chop off my arm," she sneers. "Sew it onto Sera and you've almost got the same thing."

"Sabina," he drops his voice low. She has to steady herself. He hopes he can produce something in her, anything but this tensely wound spring. 

"What side effects? From the potions, at least so far?" Her breathing still isn't regular, but it's better. And she's wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. With her standing straight again, he puts a hand at the small of her back. Instead of twitching away, she leans back into it.

"Well, ranging from twenty minutes of terrors akin to the Joining itself, to that one where Anders could taste colors for three days."

Under his breath Anders mumbles something that sounds like, "tried that one twice."

Sabina tactfully ignores him. "And this batch, what do you think?"

"I think each time I get closer to the cure, if only because I have eliminated other options." Daylen may be honest, but it is not comforting.

The Inquisitor rubs her forehead; Cullen rubs the small of her back. "You don't have to do this, Sabina."

Her response is bitter, "Yes, I do, you know that. Everyone does." No one says a word while she considers the options. "Will you shut up, Anders." But Anders hasn't said a thing aloud, she must be referring to his singing.

"This isn't any easier for me, you know. Being in the same room as you is torture." 

"Draw me a dose. I can't face Coryphaeus blighted. Or maybe I will, in the end. But I should at least try. None of the potions have killed you yet."

"Sabina," Cullen trusts her, trusts Daylen too when it comes to trying his best. But he does not trust this arcane science Daylen is building. And the trials have only been on himself and Anders thus far, both bodies heavier with the weight of the taint than hers. Hers is so light she did not even know, like a feather in her pocket.

She turns against his hand until it is at her hip. Looking just slightly up into his eyes, she presses her palm to his cheek. "You need to prepare the Inquisition troops. If this works or not, we're leaving straight after."

Holding her wrist, he has one final objection, "After you drink, I'll go."

“Do not wait for the side effects to pass. There is not the time.”

No option exists but to agree.

"This one is injectable." Daylen approaches, two needles between his fingers. "I'll take the other dose."

Sabina turns away from Cullen and nods, takes the syringe right from Daylen's hand. Even from the way she holds it, clumsy in her otherwise dexterous hands, Cullen can tell she does not have experience administering injectables to herself. 

"Darling, let me do it," his mouth is dry, "I know how."

Her dark eyes narrow, but she hands over the needle, rolls up her tunic sleeve, off-white and delicate against her darker skin. He inspects the length of her arm to choose a suitable vein. They're greenish, unlike the blue of his. Somehow, with her arm in his, needle at her flesh, this act strikes him as more intimate than anything else they've done. The needle slides in smoothly to the raised vein and he depresses, the mint-green substance filling her up. If it hurts her, she does not show it, staring straight ahead. When he looks up, finished with his task, he just catches her irises before they roll back in her head. Seeing her faint, it's easy enough to keep her from crashing into the floor, grasping her by the waist and letting the empty syringe hit the floor. Her breathing continues, even enough to suggest she's not in distress. 

"What did you do to her?" When Cullen looks to Daylen, he’s impassive. 

"I've got to take it too," Daylen avoids his question.

"No!" Cullen snaps back. There is nowhere to lay Sabina but the floor, so for now he holds her up against his chest. Her head lolls against his shoulder. Limp like this, she feels heavier than he is used to. "I have to go prepare an army for battle in case the Inquisitor does not awaken in a timely fashion. You need to make sure she wakes up or my legacy is going to be as the man who killed the Hero of Ferelden." The anger is so thick in him he cannot even force a yell. "Give the other dose to the abomination."

Daylen hesitates, the second needle still between his fingers.

"Now!" They are all fraying.

Still, Daylen remains rooted in place. Cullen's hand goes for the pommel of his blade, balancing Sabina’s weight in his other arm.

"Maker's breath." Anders snatches the needle from Daylen and before anyone can stop him, stabs himself, and promptly falls like a brick to the Undercroft floor.

Before he leaves to ready the troops, he kisses Sabina's forehead. Laying her down gently against the stones, he whispers in her ear, "I love you."

\--

Forty-five minutes later he is ready to push ahead with his soldiers. Doing nothing is not an option, even without the Inquisitor. Surely he will lose many of the already thin troops. While they are better trained and equipped than they would have been a year ago, they have not faced Coryphaeus directly. None of them have in their series of indirect confrontations. This war against a monster who would call himself a God.

Dressed in her armor, high riding boots and leathers, Sabina strides towards him as if nothing odd at all transpired in the Undercroft. As if that whole series of events happened to different people, not to them.

"Inquisitor." Maker, his heart stops for a moment.

"Commander, are we ready to depart?"

"Yes." Once she has turned away to lead them forward, he thanks the Maker under his breath. To see her on two feet is a blessing in itself. He dare not ask if the potion worked. They will all know soon enough.

\--

Flames spring in bright patches around ancient marble. Materials that should not be alight are. The Breach, where this began. Where Sabina fell back into the world, out of the Fade. Whenever he thinks of her walking the Fade, he's overwhelmed by the faith he has, yet she doesn't. If she has seen it, and cannot believe it providence, either she is broken or the rest of the world is. This question sits at the back of his mind, unanswered. It has for many months, only now it is quite a vivid one. 

They have to leave the horses behind as they ascend the mountain. Sabina and her party are just ahead, her black hair catching the light of the fires. Now on foot, they face patches of petty demons spilling through temporary rifts that Sabina seals as fast as she can. The efficiency of her inner circle means that most all are slain before he follows through with limited troops. His soldiers now are not many, only enough to support the Inquisitor. The bulk are still in transit from the Arbor Wilds. 

Keeping pace at his side, Scout Harding is uncharacteristically quiet. Her eyes stay peeled ahead of them. 

"Commander," Harding breaks the silence. "Move further ahead."

"Why?" 

Harding is well trusted in the Inquisition, she would not have her position otherwise. "A feeling."

Heading her suggestion, he doubles his pace until he is beside Sera. He can hear the elf cursing under her breath that this is all madness. The Inquisitor herself is madness, beautiful madness who is the only one with any shred of sense left. With Sera's babbling an ongoing noise, he presses further forward, his feet carrying him so Sabina's side.

“Commander, is something wrong?” Her eyes remain fixed forward. 

“Harding believes something to be, though she was not specific.”

She drops her head, “We are close.” 

When Coryphaeus comes into sight, he is humbling the few soldiers who were assigned to the Breach all along. Dispensing demons with simple gestures to slit their throats. Only a few men, but Cullen feels for each one who falls. 

Cassandra, at the point position of the party, strides forward, her sword already drawn. With a sure slice, she rips apart the demon, blood flying back into her face. Cullen draws his weapon as well, pulling his shield from his back. Like Cassandra, he is a defender, he should press even further ahead, buy the others space. But Sabina will not be denied this moment. 

 

“I knew you would come,” Coryphaeus is smug. Of course they would come. They would not let him win.

“It ends here, Coryphaeus.” Her words are a threat, but she does not draw her daggers. They sit flat against her back.

Sparks sputter from Coryphaeus’ fingertips. He lifts the ground itself, bending and breaking the world. Cullen’s stomach drops out. This manipulation is like nothing he has seen before. To tear open the sky and the soil both. Both with deft motions and little effort. “And so it shall.”

Beneath their feet the ground cracks apart. Tearing and vibrating so violently his teeth clatter against each other. The thick chunk of earth breaks away, scattering the party in its suddenness. Sabina falls to her hands and knees. He reaches forward to grab her hand and pull her back to her feet. The tilt of the ground forces them both to slide backwards, if they do, they will fall off.

But as suddenly as the movement began, it stops. Coryphaeus returns his attention to her, and her alone. He has only ever been interested in the Inquisition for the Anchor. In many ways, it is his underestimation of them in all other regards that has brought them to this point. 

“You have been most successful in foiling my plans, but let us not forget who you are.”

The Anchor on Sabina’s left hand flares, bright enough to make the fires cringe.

As Coryphaeus speaks, Cullen assesses who they are a left with, and who has fallen. He can only hope they are safe below, that the drop from the platform did not kill them. Critically, Cassandra is nowhere to be found. With the Magister’s attention elsewhere, Cullen helps Dorian to his feet. It cannot possibly be that only the three of them remain. And Cassandra must be here, somewhere. 

“A thief,” Coryphaeus says the word as if it is an insult, not knowing Sabina would never take the label as such. “In the wrong place at the wrong time. An Interloper. A gnat.”

Behind a fallen pillar he finds Bethany. She is already weaving a spell to mend her broken arm. 

“Will you be able to fight?” Maker, she is already in rough shape. Blood trickles from one of her eyes. It will swell before too long without treatment. But there are not enough of them on the platform to leave her behind. Dorian kneels besides him, but there is little he can do other than pass Bethany a lyrium flask so she can continue working.

“Yes. I just need a moment,” she grits her teeth as the bone resets itself, a horrific series of cracks. 

Cullen wants to return his attention to Sabina, but without suitable assistance, they are all dead. Where is Cassandra?

“We will prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of Godhood.”

And that sounds like an invitation, a threat. “Dorian, we must go, now. Bethany, once you are able.”

She nods her head, still working the magic with one hand while the other reshapes. 

“I don’t believe in Gods,” Sabina challenges, shouts really. As if she wants all of Thedas to hear her because up until this point they have refused to hear. Even those who know, refuse to listen, accept. And he has been chief among them. Finally she draws her blades from her back. As she does, the false Archdemon appears above Coryphaeus, dark and hollow. Knowing it is not true does not make it any less imposing. Its giant nostrils flaring, it looks at Sabina as if she is some tasty morsel. Cullen rushes forward, his shield in front of him, stepping between the beast and the Inquisitor. As if he could do anything. But he also cannot do nothing.

The screech of a second creature pierces through the darkness. A dragon, taloned and teethed, tackles the false Archdemon against the remnants of a wall, smashing through it so loud it makes Cullen’s ears ring. They tumble off the edge of the platform, clawing and crying. Then he realizes, Morrigan. This is her power, Mythal’s power through her, that will allow them to win. 

“You dare.” That is the last they hear from Coryphaeus before he ghosts away, putting space between them. It gives them precious little time.

“Sabina, Cassandra is not here.”

She sheathes her blades for now. Some plan is coming together behind her closed eyes. Either that, or she is trying to block out the noise. 

“Who do I have?”

“Myself, Dorian, Bethany.”

Tearing at her hair, her voice is barely above a whisper. “Fuck.” Her eyes snap open. “You will have to do. Keep him on you as much as possible. Face him away from the mages. Do not worry about me. You won’t even see me work. Pray to your Maker, if it makes you feel better.”

Bethany joins them, her sleeve is in tatters, but the arm under it is serviceable. Her eye is still red, but the swelling is minor.

“If anything else comes to aid him, try to get their attention as well. If you fail at this, I will never forgive you. Because we will all be dead.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” He does not doubt his own abilities. But they only fought together once and Sabina’s style is particularly attuned to working with Cassandra. In battle they have been inseparable. As if they dance arm in arm. He knows losing her will weigh heavily on Sabina. 

Sharply, Sabina grabs him by the front of his armor, trying to find any sort of purchase. Smashes her lips to his with too much teeth. As much desperation as she gives, he receives and returns. When she pulls away her are lips bruised from the impact. 

“I am still blighted. If he takes me, you must kill me.”

There is no other option. 

She is already moving towards Coryphaeus’ position as she barks out more orders. “Bethany, your priority is keeping Cullen alive, then yourself, then Dorian. If I’m enough of an idiot to get hit, you might as well kill me off.”

As they pass an abandoned bow on the ground, she slings it across her body. There are no arrows. Perhaps she believes she will find them ahead. For now, she draws her blades. “Dorian, just kill shit. Quickly, please.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Dorian sighs. 

How his tone can remain so dismissive in such a time is astonishing. But, like everything else with Dorian, there is a darkness to his statement. Cullen is oddly comforted by it, light and dark both. Speeding up, he overtakes Sabina. Reaches into himself for Clense, out of instinct, but it does not come. None of his abilities will come without lyrium. 

But he cannot second guess himself. He is not Cassandra, a Seeker. The abilities will not come without the aid of magics not his own. He is no longer himself, a Templar. But he must protect her. All of them. Defend. Second guessing is not an option.

“Dorian, I need lyrium.”

None of them stop their approach. The leash that bound him has been broken for months. And now, in a moment of crisis, it seems so easy to throw away. This madness has backed them all into a wall. Crushed them between the hands of fate until they cannot breathe. In the end, it is Sabina who holds the flask. She hands it to him, but stealths away without waiting for him to engage. 

He drinks. 

Because otherwise they will fail. There were always to be costs. Each of them pays in measure. It tastes as sweet as he remembers, thick and potent. This time he looks for Cleanse and finds it, like an old friend curled up in the center of his chest. Already he wants a second kiss. Wants to drink it from Sabina’s lips, lick it from her body. 

Next he cries, draws Coryphaeus to him. He will never interest the Magister, but for now he cannot see the Anchor for which he lusts, so he follows Cullen’s taunt. While he misses the image of Sabina sinking her blades into his back, he cannot ignore the noise of it. The way the victim wails, the stripping away of skin, tearing of muscle. Just as soon, she dances away, hidden in the shadows.

Coryphaeus flies away and Cullen has no way to counter him at a distance. Instead he rushes forward with his shield and tries to keep his attention. Casts Cleanse as often as he can manage. Dorian’s fire and Bethany’s force fly past his face. Arrows too come from somewhere. Powerful strikes that pierce his body, though not quite near vital bits. 

Cullen reaches into himself for Cleanse, because it is all he can think of, make the magic in front of him go away, so the magic at his back can do its best. But his mana is low. He needs another draught to continue. But he must, he must do something. His shield does what it can to deflect the magic hurled at him, but it still singes him from the inside. Wraps itself around his bones and refuses to let go. He aches from it.

Reach for it, find it. He stretches out his hand as the dragon crashes against the platform. The structure lurches under their feet. Instead of Cleanse, he gets clumsy fire. Fire. 

“Morrigan!” Sabina’s stealth breaks as she rushes towards the downed mage. “Fuck! Fuck!”

Cullen must forget the fire at his fingertips, because while Coryphaeus has retreated yet again, the Archdemon remains. Snarling, charging towards Sabina at full force. She steps away just in time, but he has already failed as a defender, lost as he was in an aberration. He must make amends, so he taunts, he pulls. He looks into the eyes of a creature who should not be. Forgets himself. Forgets everything.


	23. Blood, Whispers, Sisters, Other Things She'd Rather Forget

Bethany doesn’t react fast enough. And for that she blames herself. When Coryphaeus’ dragon touches down on the platform the ground beneath her boots rattles so intensely that she stumbles. In the moment she forgets which arm is which and braces herself on the injured one. Under the weight of her body she feels it crack again, splinters of pain searing up the length of the bone as it fractures apart. But none of that matters. What matters is she stumbles, she falls, her barrier spell is off-timed. Dorian is not ready to cast either. Cullen stands vulnerable for too long. 

She hears it before she sees it. The crunching of flesh and bones. She wishes she never knew the distinctive sound of a body breaking in the first place. With the horrific disassembling she pictures Marian’s body speared on Knight-Commander Meredith’s blade. The way she slid down the sharpened lyrium edge and came to rest against the pommel. Blood foaming from her mouth as she struggled to breathe with collapsed lungs. Thick, wet gasps for life.

But it’s not Marian. And it’s not the Red Lyrium blade. It is Cullen, under the dragon’s foot, claws puncturing his chest and affixing him to the ground. Straight through the metal of his armor, crushed up around the dragon's talons like it was nothing more than parchment. But the gurgle of blood and saliva that rises up and over his paling lips, out of the corners of his mouth, that is familiar enough. 

Lady Trevelyan marked him for healing priority and so Bethany obeys. If the order had been anything else, she would be forced to disobey. She keeps her distance, some measure of security for now, and feels for the magics inside her. Asks for the gentle, passing cloud of healing. Inside her it stirs, she casts. One will not be enough so she asks her body for permission again. Rising to her throat, a whisper at her lips, from her hands and mouth. It’s all she can do. A dozen will not be enough.

Beyond the spell in her ears she can hear the Inquisitor in her rage. Screaming, sobbing, all at once in a jumble of noises. The slice of her blades against the tough hide of the dragon. When Bethany cracks her eyes, afraid to see Cullen still in tatters, it is as bad as she imagined. He’s still pinned, unmoving. The dragon must move first. 

Lips quiet first so she can yell after.

“Inquisitor! We must get the dragon off of him!”

The Inquisitor says nothing but flares the Anchor, her gift from Andraste. It’s so bright that Bethany must look away from it. But the sheer intensity is enough it still pricks at the corners of her eyes. Paints the insides of her eyelids Fade-green. Lady Trevelyan keeps it alight while she tries to tempt the dragon off of Cullen. This is a mistake as well, but one they must make. Her lightly armored body will be torn apart if the dragon catches her. 

“This is what you want Coryphaeus! Come for it!” Lady Trevelyan screams as loud as she can manage, darting between swipes of the same claws that crushed Cullen. The flare of the Gift of Andraste fades in and out. It is clear enough she cannot keep it alight indefinitely. Holding it out as a temptation she can only wield one short blade. 

Once the Inquisitor moves the beast away Bethany runs to Cullen’s broken body. His torso is in shreds. But he breathes, only just. Taking his head in her hands, she repeats the needed words even though the spell will not come yet. Over and over so it does not miss a moment. Once her body is ready it will be against his wounds. 

His amber eyes stare, half open. He does not blink. Does not speak. Only breathes.

Dorian runs past her, on the tail of Lady Trevelyan and the dragon in pursuit. Vials of lyrium drop by her side as he passes. It is then she realizes how hopeless her cause. Words die in her throat. Cullen’s injuries are much more extensive than Marian’s. Two puncture wounds through his chest accompanied by pressure breaks along his ribs. More than that, Bethany is alone. Dorian cannot help her, filling in the loose time as she waits to cast again. When they kept her sister alive, it was possible because they left her no time to die. And Anders, his restorative spells are like nothing she had seen before or since. She cannot do this alone. 

The sounds of battle around her peter out as she begins the Chant instead of spells. In her effort to serve man she has failed. She asks Blessed Andraste to save him, one of her most devout. A man who served Her best he could under the worst of circumstances. If not for Cullen, then Andraste please save his life on her account. A mage and an apostate for most of her life, yes. But Bethany knows in her heart that the Maker's Bride would not hate her for her choices. Nor for choices that were not her own. Please. The Inquisition serves the Maker even if it does not the Chantry. Even if the Inquisitor herself serves neither. 

Cullen’s head rests in her lap. Pulling off her gloves, she uses her bare hands to wipe the blood away from his face. But she cannot help herself. When she feels the spell is ready again she casts it. Returns her voice to the Chant in the intervals between. The lyrium is sweet and thick in her mouth, insisting she can be more than she is. That she can do great things. Part of her wants to believe. His blood soaks her robes.

When the Chant is too heavy on her tongue she cries for him, because Sabina can’t. 

It is not until the Inquisitor stands over her, hair stuck to her face and a open wound across her chest, weeping but not fatal, that Bethany realizes the dragon has fallen. It lies in a burning heap, the choking smell of burnt flesh and black taint soaking the air around them. The Inquisitor’s eyes remain fixed on the shallow rise and fall of Cullen’s chest. Bethany’s fingers soothe over his forehead. From her dark eyes Bethany cannot tell what Lady Trevelyan thinks, what she feels. She is not a woman Bethany thinks she will ever understand. 

“Dorian,” her voice is full of tremors. “Take the lyrium flasks from Bethany.” As she speaks she does not look away, her eyes settle now on Cullen's barely open ones. “We have to face Coryphaeus.”

“Inquisitor,” Bethany does not know the correct protest. Does not know if she has the right to protest. Without the lyrium she cannot keep up her vigil. Though even with them she may fail. 

“Stay with him. But Dorian has to cast. If we fail we all die. There are only two of us.” 

Dorian does not seem any happier with the command than Bethany is. It does not have to be this way. Some other path, option must exist. The Inquisitor could not be so cold. Not Andraste’s chosen. 

“Sabina,” Dorian touches her shoulder lightly.

“Do it, Dorian,” she stalks away, saying nothing more of or to Cullen.

The conflict in Dorian’s eyes is apparent. Bethany doesn’t dare say a word but her heart crushes inside her chest when he follows orders, taking up the full flasks and affixing them to his belt. Her hands want to snatch them away, push Dorian over and claw them from him. But even if she were physically capable of doing so, to disobey the Inquisitor would be unwise. 

Like everyone else she read Varric’s book about her sister, how kind he was to sidestep her faults, twist them into beautiful things. Plumped up her better characteristics. How devoted she was, how she refused to buckle against the odds they faced. Her liveliness and her wit. When it comes time to write the Inquisitor’s story she only hopes Varric is not as measured. That he manages to capture Lady Trevelyan exactly as she is. It may be cruel, but Bethany cannot help but think the noblewoman would rather be remembered as she is in reality. 

With the blood cleaned from Cullen’s mouth his face looks almost peaceful. The pink from his lips, his cheeks, is faded. But the way his eyes stare forward under golden lashes pricks at her. Makes her stomach churn. She casts heal again, letting it wash over his body. Some of the power misdirects so her own injured arm under his head. She curses herself for being so clumsy. It will be twice as long before she can cast again without the lyrium to sustain her. For now she cannot mend him, only hope that blood in his body continues to function at the most basic level. That he wants to live more than he wants to die. Her hand move from his face to his chest. She presses against one of the open wounds to try and stem the blood loss. But it is futile, he comes apart in her hands. She tries not to think of her fingers painted red.

The Chant continues. Somewhere distant, but not very much so, she can hear Lady Trevelyan screaming until she is hoarse. Even then she continues with wordless noises in the dark. When Bethany dares to look away from Cullen’s face she can still make out the green glow of the the Gift beyond the next wall. Its pulse like a beacon. 

Chant, cast, listen. His chest rises and falls. She needs lyrium. Exhausted. 

It is Dorian who reaches her first, sprinting towards her, tossing her a single vial that remains. Bethany drinks it down. Melts the magic this time against the largest of Cullen’s wounds where the dragon’s claws punctured him. Already on his way for more help, Dorian does not wait for any acknowledgement. 

When Lady Trevelyan approaches it is with one leg dragging at an odd angle. It does not support her weight for long as she shifts towards them. Too pale lips in a line, she is losing blood though the rate is not great. Bethany has no words for her, nor her for Bethany. 

Reaching Cullen, she drops to her knees. The Gift of Andraste continues to activate unevenly. Almost in time with her running sobs. She wants to tell Lady Trevelyan he is still alive but instead she heals best she can. Anders is still a prisoner at Skyhold. But that seems hopelessly far from where they now kneel. 

Lady Trevelyan lies beside him, seemingly oblivious to Bethany’s presence. Her right hand comes to rest against Cullen’s chest. She must be able to feel him breathe. Curling her body against his, her pained noises do not stop though she has barely a voice left. She has strength enough for this. Tremors rack her body. She wretches in her throat but does not vomit. Again and again, forcing her body to twitch against the stone.

Not knowing what else to do Bethany continues her alternation of words. When Lady Trevelyan speaks she can barely make out the words at first. 

“Thank you, Lady Hawke, for doing what I could not.” The rasp to her voice is pronounced. 

Bethany is unsure what exactly she means. If the healing magic, the Chant, or simply staying with him while she fought Coryphaeus. It is not until then that it strikes her, Dorian and Lady Trevelyan’s return signaled the end to that monster who would be a god. She hasn’t the time or breath for relief but, eventually, it will come. There will be a future. 

Lady Trevelyan passes her hand over Cullen’s eyes gently closing them.

\--

Another healing mage is located to assist Bethany as they carry Cullen’s body away from the battlefield. Her arm remains unmended and the ache settles in. Once they reach the makeshift campsite there will perhaps be time for a potion, a splint to set it properly. From Dorian she hears that Sera and a crow have both been sent to Skyhold to bring Anders to the field. For that she is grateful. But there is a long time yet before his arrival. And Anders has hated Cullen, truly, deeply hated him, for a long time. There is no guarantee he can be bribed to be kind. But Bethany will fight for him if needed. 

She receives a meal, a sling for her arm, and a change of robes while the other mage, a Dalish boy barely out of his teens, tends to Cullen. Though she aches all over, every joint and every muscle, she wishes to be at his side. It is she who is responsible for him.

They have no cots so Cullen has been placed on a bedroll, the mage whose name Bethany cannot remember kneeling at his side. His magic is looser, wilder than hers. But she cannot fault his skill. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she dismisses him for now. The immediate danger has passed. His life is in the Maker’s hands until Anders arrives. The interval between casts to keep him teeteringly alive has proven well enough. Though his wounds have been washed and bandaged, he still needs care. The tears in his organs, his body, must be remade by magic. 

On Cullen’s other side Lady Trevelyan clings, her eyes closed. Her head rests on his shoulder, one of the bits of him still intact. The Gift is quiet at her hand. When Bethany sits with her legs tucked under her robes, Lady Trevelyan’s eyes open. But the words she speaks are not for her, but for him. 

“It is over.”

Just as soon she is asleep again. 

\--

Anders arrives just before dawn. Throwing aside his coat, he kneels next to her, glow already at his hands. Silently he appraises Cullen’s injuries. Bethany does not mind that she goes unacknowledged. She watches as he begins weaving, spells she will never learn under his breath. They are ones he cannot seem to teach.

“Thank you, Anders,” the thanks are for her sake, for Cullen’s, for Lady Trevelyan who lies still asleep. 

His concentration does not break.


	24. So Little Resolved Under the Noon Sun and Broken Bodies

Sabina doesn't worry about how high in the sky the sun already holds. Nearly noon but that does not matter. There are no commitments for her to attend today, or tomorrow, nor the next day. Josephine is in the midst of preparing a grand banquet to celebrate their victory over Coryphaeus. A last lavish showpiece to impress the nobility of Orlais and Ferelden. It is a good idea, a very good one. Her political mind knows as much so she does not object. But right now it still aches to move. She has no desire to move, shifting only slightly against Cullen, warm next to her in the bed. Warmer than yesterday, a good sign. Any final decisions regarding decor, menus, guest lists, can be handled by Vivienne. It is not a task that demands Sabina's attention. 

This, this is what will occupy her today, hopefully tomorrow, perhaps the next day. It cannot stretch on forever, this idleness. But for now she will cling to it.

Not meaning to wake Cullen, she also cannot help but run her fingers against patches of light skin where the bandages do not cover, shoulders, neck, face. Even days later, even after all of Bethany and Anders' intervention, he is still wrapped in white cloth from navel to under his armpits. But he lives, he will get better. She smiles against his shoulder.

"Darling?" His weight shifts, but his injuries require that he must remain flat on his back for at least a few more days. Realizes as much when he goes to roll and the pain strikes him planting him back on his back. The banquet has been scheduled as much around his recovery as anything else. Anders believes a few more days and he will be presentable enough. Weeks though before any strenuous activity. Best not to aggravate the wounds. Not every day one gets stomped on by an Archdemon, false or not, and lives.

Anders, who no longer sings, though she does not know why, kept vigil over Cullen's body, reassembling him for hours without her waking. Without her disturbing him either. In the absence of Coryphaeus she may lose herself to the quiet she has so missed. She can think linearly, circularly, in all sorts of patterns and phrases. Allows her to feel like herself again. 

One less magic muddles her thoughts. One that should have never have been gallivanting across Thedas. Warden Amell admits to being skeptical, unsure how long the peace will last. Such songs do not simply melt away. His Calling continues. As far as her and Anders, what was subtracted could just as easily be added back. She still sparks when she should not. Like her childhood dreams, only now the hint of a nightmare.

"I didn't mean to wake you." She kisses his shoulder, glad he is talking, that she can hear his voice string together in sounds that make such sweet sense.

He lifts his arm so she can slide against him, her naked skin against his bandages. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, careful of where the wounds persist. Her own has healed well enough between elixirs and magic that the bandage that came off the day before. She is left with a scar cutting from the top of her rib cage, just below her right breast, down to her left hipbone. It still looks angry against her skin, but it is well enough closed.

Within minutes he drifts back to sleep. From the position she gets a crick in her neck. Endures it so he remains undisturbed.

When he wakes again she is fairly certain it is of his own volition. His fingers tangle in her loose curls. Smiling back at her it as if nothing particularly horrific has transpired. Maybe things were never as dire as they seemed. Maybe it was all in her head, the head of everyone close to her as well. A collective nightmare.

"How did I get here?" He has had moments of lucidity prior to this one. Engaged in entire conversations with her or Bethany. But not in a single case has he managed to remember. While the danger did pass like clouds moving swiftly across the sky, the potions have kept him drugged for days. Each evening he receives a lyrium dose to keep his terrors at bay. They can take no risks with him tearing at stitches Anders so diligently wove.

"We carried you from the battlefield." It does not matter to her if he won't remember. She remembers even though her head was light and her hands shaking. Gripped his hand in hers as he was stretched to the campsite. As they lay in the tent, his chest cavity still a series of impossible punctures. She'll answer any of his questions as they are asked. A small price to pay.

"I remember, I don't want to remember." His hand covers his face.

She kisses his jaw, unwilling to push him in either direction. 

"Maker, I think I saw Blessed Andraste, she held me as I died."

Light laughter bubbles up but she is careful not to shake him. "You didn't die, or maybe you did. But it was Bethany who held you."

He moves his hand away from his mouth and to his forehead, as if that could diagnose his incapacitation. "So, we defeated Coryphaeus?"

"Technically Dorian and I did. But if you ask Varric nicely I'm sure he can work something out. You know how this goes," she waves her hand, "his is the only account that will matter. Never mind he fell off the platform."

Pulling back slightly he looks at her naked chest. This is the first time he sees the wound across her torso. His eyes widen and she rushes in to stop any sort of coddling.

"Yours are much worse. Corypheus's dragon squashed you like a bug."

"Maker, how did we even..."

"Because there was no other choice." And really, there wasn't. Win and survive, lose and perish. She, they, had not given up nearly everything to be thwarted at the final moment. The ache still in her chest tells her she would have sacrificed more. She would have sacrificed this, the gentle warmth of his body next to hers. Straining her neck just slightly she catches his lip. Careful not to hurt him she kisses him to reassure them both. Both of them need this. "I-" she feels it unfair to keep it secret. As many time as she must confess to him, ask forgiveness, she will. "I would have left you to die if needed."

His hand cradles her neck keeping their faces close together. The stubble along his jaw is thick. "I know. This is not more important than Thedas."

"But I like this." Voice soft, it is a painful admission. Perhaps she is not as selfish as others claim, because to be selfish she would have had to choose him. And she didn't. 

"I like this too." His smile drops. "I'm so tired."

"Yes," she traces her finger against the scar at his lip. Less painful to consider than the others. "Blood loss, potions, magic."

"Magic," he recalls something. "Sabina, when we were fighting Coryphaeus, I cast Fire. I meant it to be Cleanse, but...it was an accident, or something. I am not a mage. But."

"We are vectors, problems with many solutions," she sounds like Morrigan or, worse, Solas. Absent Solas who she has no desire to follow. She'd much prefer the comparison to Morrigan, also already vanished, her dark, solemn child in tow. She cannot conjure more specific words to describe how she feels, so metaphors like Morrigan's must suffice. What truths speak to her when she stands before an open rift. What grasped her by the throat as she tore open the world to tear apart Coryphaeus. "The boundaries between bodies are thin, but so is the boundary between bodies and the Fade. Like one is seeping into the other."

Warden Amell told her red lyrium is alive. It is organism without organs. Body without body. It scares her more than ever. But there will never be time for blind fear. Too little time already that she cobbles together explicitly for for laying in bed all day, sharing secrets that will not remain as such.

"I...I do not wish to think about that now. Is that alright, darling?"

"Of course." In truth she does not wish to speak on it either. Still so much they do not understand. "Your bandages must be changed. And the wounds cleaned."

Solemnly he nods, "Can I walk?"

"I assume so. You have not yet. But your legs were not crushed. But wait, I will call for water."

She does not wish to leave him for a moment. This could have so easily have been lost. And it would have been a loss she would have to endure wordlessly. Alone. Cruel thing really, to care as she now cares.

With the water called she finds her dressing gown, loose enough to not aggravate her wound. 

Changing his bandages is something she can do without assistance. Her training in field medicine is just enough that they need not be assaulted by others. Selfishly, she wishes to keep his interspersed waking moments to herself. 

Nehn brings the water but does not meet Sabina's eyes as she sets the basin down. Flitting away without a word, it is clear enough that Sabina's act of kindness, if that is what it was, was construed in quite a different way. At least she has not woken to the elf between their sheets.

Cullen's feet rest against the floor, not yet supporting his weight. Clear enough that he is hesitant. Probably rightfully so. From the shallow rise and fall of his breathing she can guess that much might cause him discomfort as well. 

She offers her shoulder to lean on. Good that she is also tall, broad. If she were a tiny thing she could not hold him as she does. They cross the room in simple silence, Cullen gritting his teeth. His legs may work fine but that does not mean such movement does not send spikes of pain through him.

Seated, finally, he exhales. A relief for them both. Her hands work at the fabric of his bandages unwinding layer by layer. Outer ones pristine white, further inside the brown of dried blood, an innermost layer with flecks of bright red. Not as much as there was days ago. She catches him looking down at the patched holes in his chest before averting his eyes. A horrific thing to view, indeed. 

"It may hurt," she soothes, pressing warm water against where he still lightly bleeds. The basin turns lightly pink as she works. 

"Are you sure I am not dead?"

"No, but then it would be both of us," she tries to keep the mood light for his sake. "And Thedas would surely be fucked. Warden Amell would try to doe-eye Coryphaeus into submission." Her eyes roll. Better than staring into the wound for too long.

Cullen only barely laughs before wincing, "The man did kill an Archdemon."

"Not alone, he did not."

"And you?"

"Raised an army, raised a continent." She drops the wet, bloodied cloths into a heap on the floor. A servant can retrieve them later. Gently she pats the wound dry. Taking the clean bandages she begins to wrap. The cloth is soft against her fingers but feels no where near as wonderful as the life on Cullen's skin. Rolling bandages between her hands, against his chest, she tries to tell him what will always be difficult to say. "Ended up taking down the 'ancient Darkspawn magister' with one dagger, an unwanted piece of shit grafted to my hand, and a flippant mage who apparently thinks I'm as bad as Coryphaeus now."

"Why?"

"Because I told him to take the lyrium for casting rather than giving it to Bethany to heal you."

One of Cullen's hands strokes against her hair as she bandages. The fluttering of his breathing is so sweet. Wants to hold it in her mouth. Like biting into a butterfly. "You made the right decision. I'll talk to him."

She would say she doesn’t need his words. But they still provide relief. Needing and wanting are two different states. 

As she finishes tucking the bandage together she kisses lightly at his covered wounds. She is not a healer, but she can offer this much. Now she can. "Can you make it back to bed?"

"Give me a moment." His weight shifts in the chair, testing his thresholds before settling back down. His face serious, "I signed, you know."

"I know." Josephine told her upon their return to Skyhold. 

Cullen holds out his hand so they can lace their fingers together. She has always liked the contrast of them, how her fingers are narrower, his skin lighter. Even when she may have not admitted to liking the rest of him. 

There are many words stuck in her throat and this does not seem the time for most of them. Cullen may not even remember tomorrow. But she'll say them again. 

"Does it feel any different?"

He nods, something she hadn't expected. Doesn't feel much different to her. From the moment she decided to wear the pendant she had resolved to be his, as he had already been hers. The formality of it does not produce anything new in her. 

"You are my wife," he smiles through the statement. Somehow, hearing it like that from his parted lips does fill her with an unexpected elation. She wants him, very badly. The touch of her fingers inside him, his cock inside her, biting and clawing and all the permutations they can conjure. But that is not a possibility until he is well healed. Fuck, even she is in no condition. The thought of his flushed face makes her stomach burn all the same. She is his wife. He is her husband. They have been married for days now. 

More than that, they have survived. Now there will be time. Never enough. But Sabina will steal anything that isn't nailed down. She has always been a clever thief for one of noble birth.

"What does it feel like, Lord Trevelyan?" She teases, already knowing he will hate that. Probably will hate it forever. What a burden.

His eyebrows knit together as he scowls. "Maker, I hope you don't mind, but I might be forced to violently dispatch the first person who addresses me as such."

She laughs, so pure and true until her sides and her scar ache. Knows he can’t laugh but hopes he finds it just as funny. "Let us only hope that unfortunate soul is Orleasian."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, really, for all your support with this series. No joke, I have never felt so privileged to write for an audience as I have with this story. My partner would catch me smiling to myself when I would think about this story, working on it, trying to bring it to life. I can only hope what I've written here brings you at least some of the joy I felt writing it. I am marking this as an end because I do not wish to overstay my welcome. 
> 
> On a(n even more) personal note: thank you for accepting Sabina. 
> 
> Moving forward, I posed a few options on chapter 23, but I realize it has only been about a day since I last updated. But the consensus so far seems, yes to sequel and for it to be some sort of blend of the following ideas. 
> 
> 1) there is still no damn cure: this would follow Daylen, Anders, and Cullen primarily. Taking place at Skyhold with some travel. At some point Alistair would return. Main pairing would be Daylen/Alistair with past Daylen/Anders. Cullen/Tevelyan in the background. Probably around 10 chapters.
> 
> 4) ah, wedded bliss, but also, wtf why do we all have magic now?: stays focused on Cullen/Trevelyan. Cullen goes through lyrium withdrawal, again. The question of Sabina actually popping out a kid while managing her career of fixing the damn continent. Somewhere in the 10 chapter range.
> 
> I'm going to take some time to plot out some sort of structure for this. I shot myself in the foot a bit with this story because I was only plotting 2-3 chapters ahead, rather than the whole story at once. 
> 
> In the meantime, you're going to get this: 
> 
> 5) strap-on porn: one chapter Cullen/Trevelyan. It will just be porn. I love hot guys getting pegged.


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